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1.25 


£f   1^    12.0 

14 


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Hiotographic 

Sciences 

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23  WIST  MAIN  STRERT 

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IVticrofiche 


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CIHM/ICMH 
Collectnon  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microraprodurtions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notaa/Notas  tachniques  at  bibliographiquas 


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the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


V 


D 


D 


n 


D 


□ 


Coloured  covers/ 
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Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
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I      I    Cover  titia  missirig/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  gdographiques  en  coubur 


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Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


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Bound  with  other  material/ 
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mais.  lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmdes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl6mentaires: 


T 
t( 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  iui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  nrocurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtrb  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuv3nt  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mithode  normals  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

n    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 


I I    Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 

rri    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxe 
L^    Pages  ddcolordes,  tachetdes  ou  piqudes 


v 


D 


Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  ddcolordes 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ddtach^es 

Showthrou{jh.' 
Transparence 

Quality  of  prir 

Quality  inegale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  materia 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 


~1^    Showthroufch/ 


I      j    Quality  of  print  varies/ 

I      I    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


□    Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  rafilm^d  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalemert  ou  partieliement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  film^es  d  nouveau  de  fapon  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


T 

P 
o 

fi 


C 
b 

tl 

si 
o 
fi 

si 
o 


T 

si 
T 

VI 

^ 

d 

e 
b 
ri 
r« 
n 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  rMuction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

y 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generasity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'exemplaire  fiim6  fut  repi'oduit  grflce  d  la 
g6n6ro8it6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationaie  du  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  Iceeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6X6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  netteti  de  l'exemplaire  filmd,  et  en 
corrformitd  avuc  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmad 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illuetrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimie  sont  film6s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'imprr*ssion  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film6s  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terrr.  *3nt  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  •"^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  y  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


IVIaps,  plates,  charts,  etc..  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  ihe  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  \o 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
mdthod: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  6  des  taux  de  reduction  diff6rents. 
Lorsque  ^e  docuiitent  est  "rop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  fiimd  6  partir 
de  I'angle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  6  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  pronant  le  nombre 
d'images  n6cessaire.  lies  diagrammes  suivan*« 
illustrent  la  m6thode. 


3 

1 

2 

4 

5 

6 

I«^ 


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JOANNA    K.   WaOD. 


J,  svpi^fi 't AiT  it  SOiW: 

«B  riFTM  avenui 


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THE  OLD  RAGMAN  AND  MRS.   DEAN. 


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THE  UNTEMPERED  WIND 


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THE 


UNTEMPERED  WIND 


BY 


JOAJSriSTA  E.  WOOD 


NEW  YORK 
J.  SELWIN  TAIT  AND  SONS 
65  Fifth  Avenue 


* 


/3  5? 


\ 


COPYRIOH'/,   1894,   BT 

J.    SELWIN    TAJT   &    SONa 


All  Rights  Reaervsd. 


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THE  UNTEMPERED  WIND. 


CHAPTER  I. 


i 


i_ 


"Consider  this,— 

That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation : " — 

It  was  early  spring,  the  maples  were  but  budding,  the 
birds  newly  come  and  restless,  the  sky  more  gray  than 
blue,  and  tho  air  still  sharp  with  a  tang  of  frost.  James- 
town's streets,  however,  looked  both  bright  and  busy. 

Groups  of  children  went  to  school,  hurrying  out  to  tho 
street,  and  looking  this  way  and  that  for  a  companion.  A 
mother  came  to  a  gate  with  a  little  girl,  and  pointing  now 
to  right,  now  to  left,  seemed  to  give  her  directions  which 
way  to  go.  Tho  little  girl  started  bravel '.  She  W3re  a 
pink  cap,  and  carried  a.  new  school-bag.  ^x^rry  on!"  a 
girl  called  to  her,  and  she  advanced  uncerta.  'y.  A  hesi- 
tating dignity  born  of  the  new  school-bag  forbade  a  decided 
run ;  her  friend's  haste  forbade  her  to  linger.  They  met 
and  passed  on  together. 

An  old  man,  with  ophthalmia,  feeling  his  way  with  a 
stick  and  muttering  to  himself  with  loose  lips,  went  by. 
Two  brothers  crossed  the  street  together,  one  swinging 
along  easily,  smoking  a  pipe,  and  carrying  an  axe  over  his 
shoulder ;  the  other  advancing  with  that  spasmodic  appear- 
ance of  haste  which  seems  the  only  gait  to  which  crutches 
can  be  compelled. 


■£.Jtf^Jru3iiiiiiK^^^»«-J'" 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


*\    % 


An  alert  dog  rushed  madly  up  the  middle  of  the  street, 
pausing  abruptly  now  and  then  to  look  round  him  Tvith 
sharp  interrogation,  as  if  daring  anything  to  "come  on!" 
His  challenge  was  vain,  and  he  was  fain  to  solace  himself 
by  scattering  a  convention  of  sparrows,  dashing  into  the 
midst  of  them  and  sending  the  birds  up  into  the  maples, 
followed  by  insulti?  yelps,  in  reply  to  which  they  twit- 
tered in  derision. 

Homer  Wilson  drove  his  tcL^n  of  heavy  brown  horses 
through  the  street  at  a  trot,  his  sinewy  frame  clad  in 
weather-beaten  blue  jeans,  his  hat  pushed  far  back  on  his 
head,  as  if  to  einphasize  the  dcfiart  breadth  of  his 
forehead. 

The  woman  still  strained  her  eyes  after  the  little  girl, 
now  only  distinguishable  by  the  brightness  of  her  cap. 
They  say  that  mothers  often  watch  by  the  gateways  of  life. 

The  grocerymau  passed  to  open  his  store — the  baker  and 
butcher  were  already  busy. 

Through  this  scene  of  busy  commonplace  interest  and 
bustle  passed  a  woman,  somewhat  below  the  average  height, 
and  of  strong  but  symmetrical  build.  Her  face  was  down- 
bent  and  almost  hidden  in  the  depths  of  a  cJi*rk  sunbonnet 
of  calico.  All  that  could  well  be  discerned  in  this  shadow 
were  two  soft,  sorrowful  eyes,  pale  cheeks,  and  down- 
drooped  lips.  No  one  spoke  to  her,  and  she  addressed  no 
one.  She  went  from  place  to  place,  out  of  one  shop  into 
another,  with  downcast  eyes,  and  with  something  of  that 
swift  directness  with  which  a  bird,  startled  from  it3  nest  at 
evening,  darts  with  folded  wings  from  covert  to  covert. 
She  was  Myron  Holder — a  mother,  but  not  a  wife. 

When  under  no  more  sacred  canopy  than  the  topaz  of  a 
summer  sky — with  no  other  bridal  hymn  than  the  choral 
of  the  wind  among  the  trees — in  obedience  to  no  law  but 
the  voice  of  nature — and  the  pleading  of  loved  lips — with 


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T//£   UNTEMPERED   WIND  7 

no  other  security  than  the  unwitnessed  oatli  of  a  man — a 
v/oman  gives  herself  utterly,  then  she  is  doubtless  lost. 
But  it  must  be  remembered  that  the  law  she  breaks  is  an 
artificial  law  enacted  solely  for  lier  protection:  and  it 
must  be  conceded  that  there  may  be  a  great  and  self-sub- 
versive generosity  which  permits  her  to  give  her  all, 
assuming  bonds  of  sometimes  dreadful  weight,  whilst  the 
recipient  goes  his  way  unshackled — uncondemned. 

There  may  be  nothing  to  be  said  in  defence  of  Myron 
Holder;  but  there  is  much  that  could  be  told  only  with 
bleeding  lips,  written  only  by  a  pen  dipped  in  wormwood, 
of  the  attitude  of  her  fellows  towards  her. 

The  world  of  to-day  sees  its  Madonna,  with  haloed  head, 
standing  amid  lilies.  The  world  of  her  day  saw  neither 
nimbus  nor  flowers;  they  saw  what,  to  *heir  unbelieving 
eyes,  was  but  her  shame.  Let  those  who  jeer  with  right- 
eous lips  at  women  such  as  this  poor  village  outcast, 
remember  that  the  meek  Maid-Mother  whom  they  adore 
perchance  shrank  before  the  cruel  taunts  and  pointing 
fingers  of  women  at  the  doorways  and  the  wells. 

Myron  Holder  left  the  butcher's  to  go  to  the  grocery 
store ;  from  thence  she  crossed  diagonally  to  Mrs.  Warner's, 
the  woman  who,  half  an  hour  before,  had  looked  so  linger- 
ingly  after  her  child.  Myron  stood  at  the  back  door  wait- 
ing, whilst  Mrs.  Warner  came  down  stairs  to  answer  her 
knock.  "Mrs.  Deans  wanted  to  know  if  Mrs.  Warner 
would  lend  her  the  quilting-frames."  Mrs.  Warner 
would. 

Mrs.  Warner  was  a  very  good  woman,  therefore  she 
looked  unutterable  contempt  at  Myron  Holder,  and  left 
her  on  the  doorstep,  whilst  she  brought  out  the  heavy 
wooden  quilting-frames.  Mrs.  Warner's  husband  drove 
the  mail  wagon  which  made  one  trip  daily  to  the  city  and 
back  to  Jamestown.     He  would  in  one  hour,  us  his  wife 


& 


The    UNTEMPEREi)  IVIND 


very  well  knew,  pass  Mrs.  Deans'  door,  but  she  did  not 
consider  that;  and  as  she  had  watched  her  own  child  out 
of  sight,  so  she  watched  Myron  Holder's  laden  form  pass 
down  thp  street,  out  into  the  country — a  large  basket  in 
one  hand,  and  the  heavy  quiltiug-frames  over  her  shoulder, 
pressing  sorely  upon  "the  sacred  mother-bosom,"  already 
yearning  for  the  easing  child  lips. 

When  clear  of  the  village,  Myron  Holder  slackened  her 
pace  a  little  and  setting  the  basket  down  for  a  moment 
turned  back  the  deep  scoop  of  her  sunbonnet,  that  the 
cooling  wind  might  breathe  its  benison  upon  her  cheeks, 
flushed  with  shame  and  hot  from  the  exertion  of  her  rapid 
walk  with  her  burden.  Stooping  slowly  down  Siileways, 
she  reached  her  basket  and  taking  it  up  proceeded  on 
her  way.  Her  face  shone  forth  from  the  dark  folds  of  her 
sunbonnet,  and  seemed  by  its  purity  of  line  and  expression 
to  ^ve  the  lie  to  the  eyes  filmed  by  acknowledged  shame ; 
only  filmed,  however,  for  the  eyes  themselves  held  no  vile 
meanings,  no  defiant  avowal  of  guilt,  no  hint  of  sinful 
knowledge,  no  glance  of  callous  indifference.  She  walked 
on  steadily,  the  spongy  earth  beneath  her  feet  seeming  to 
breathe  forth  the  essence  of  spring  as  it  inhaled  the 
warmth  of  the  sunshine. 

Presently  the  sound  of  wheels  came  to  her.  She  strove 
with  her  burdened  hand  to  brush  forward  the  sheltering 
folds  of  her  sunbonnet,  but  in  vain,  as  her  haste  defeated 
its  object.  Her  cheeks  were  shrouded  but  in  a  flaming 
blush  as  Homer  Wilson  drove  past.  He  stared  at  her 
steadily;  but  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes,  and  he  passed  on. 
His  springless  wagon  jolted  over  all  the  stones  and 
inequalities  of  the  country  roads,  just  as  Homer  Wilson 
neither  b  ished  aside  obstacles  nor  skirted  them  when 
they  opposed  his  path,  but,  in  his  obstinate,  hard-headed 
way,  rode  rough-shod   over  them,   feeling,  perhaps,  the 


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SHE  PAUSED  TO  REST, 


/       / 


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I. 


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i 


THE   UNTEMPERED   WIND  9 

hurt  of  their  opposition,   but  never  showing    that    he 

did. 

Again  there  was  silence  on  the  road.  It  was  too  early 
yet  for  any  insect  life,  and  the  sparrows  did  not  fly  so  far 
from  the  houses,  but 

"Above  in  the  wi»^  i  was  tho  swallow 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will.  " 

The  flush  for  a  space  died  out  of  her  cheeks.  As  she 
continued  on  her  way  the  snake-fence  changed  to  a  neat 
board  one,  that  in  turn  gave  place  to  one  of  ornate  wire. 
Ill  the  middle  of  this  was  a  little  gate,  which  she  passed ; 
then  came  a  wider  five-barred  gate  through  which  she 
entered,  and  found  her  way  to  the  rear  of  a  large  white 
frame  house,  standing  in  an  old  apple  orchard. 

Her  steps  were  bent  to  the  "cook  house,"  an  erection  of 
unplaned  pine  boards,  where,  in  summer,  the  kitchen- 
work  of  Mrs.  Deans'  household  was  carried  on.  Before 
Myron  Holder  crossed  its  threshold,  she  sent  one  long  look 
over  to  the  left,  where,  leafless  yet  and  gray — save  where 
a  cedar  made  a  sullen  blotch  of  green — the  trees  of  Mr. 
Deans'  woodland  bounded  her  vision  in  a  semi-circular 
sweep.  As  she  turned  her  to  the  doorway,  a  new  expres- 
sion had  found  place  within  her  eyes — upon  her  lips — 
poignant  but  indecipherable.  For  resolution,  resignation, 
and  despair  are  sometimes  so  analogous  as  to  be  insepa- 
rable, 


lO 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


CHAPTER  II. 

**  A  treasure  of  the  memory,  a  joy  unutterable. " 

"  Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even ; 
Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried. 
She  could  not  look  at  the  sweet  heaven 
Either  at  morn  or  eventide.  " 

Myron  Holder's  father  was  Jed  Holder,  the  broom- 
maker.  His  death  occurred  when  Myron  was  eighteen 
years  old.  He  had  clung  to  his  quaint  occupation  to  the 
last,  after  factory-made  brooms  stood  even  at  the  store 
doors  in  Jamestown. 

His  fortunes  had  fallen  off  sadly  in  the  last  few  years  of 
his  life,  but  he  worked  away  as  steadily  at  his  trade  as  in 
the  old  days,  when,  looking  from  his  door,  his  eyes  were 
met  by  the  mast-like  masses  of  a  Kentish  hop  orchard. 
He  had  planted  hopvines  all  about  the  fence  of  his  little 
house  in  Jamestown.  They  clambered  up  the  sides  of 
the  house,  twined  insinuatingly  about  the  disdainful  sun- 
flowers, and  throwing  their  tendrils  abroad  from  the  roots 
wound  round  and  round  the  tall  stalks  of  grass,  weighing 
them  down  with  the  burden  of  their  unsought  embrace. 

Little  Myron  was  often  impressed  with  the  truth  that  a 
single  leaf  broken  from  a  growing  hopvine  kills  the  whole 
spray.  She  learned  to  "pick  up  her  feet,"  as  her  father 
expressed  it,  and  step  daintily  between  the  wandering 
vines,  so  that  no  slurring  footstep  might  injure  them. 

Jed  Holde"  had  carried  on  the  broom-making  for  many 
years  very  systematically.  Year  by  year  he  rented  from 
Sol  Disney  a  bit  of  the  virgin  soil  of  the  woodland,  and 
the  tall  brown  tassel  of  the  broom  corn  overtopped  the 
stumps  in  the  clearing.     Year  by  year  the  little  patch  of 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


II 


corn  crept  nearer  and  nearer  the  limit  of  Disney's  dimin- 
ishing woodland — seeming,  as  Jed  Holder  said,  "to 
sweep  the  trees  off  before  it,"  but  being  in  its  turn  swept 
aside  by  waves  of  golden  grain. 

It  was  a  sore  day  to  Jed  Holder  when  he  sent  off  his  first 
order  for  Western  broom  corn,  forced  to  do  so  by  the 
impossibility  of  renting  ground  rich  enough  to  perfect 
and  mature  his  crop. 

In  the  short  winter  days  Jed  used  to  work  in  Disney's 
brush  helping  to  "  clear"  it.  In  return  for  his  services  he 
received  all  the  young  maples  they  encountered:  out  of 
these  in  the  long  winter  evenings  he  fashioned  his  broom 
handles. 

Jed  never  could  remember  how  the  knowledge  was  con- 
veyed to  him  that  broom  handles  were  being  made  by  the 
thousands  by  a  machine  out  of  the  refuse  in  the  wake  of 
logging  camps. 

If  the  recognition  of  this  iconoclastic  fact  was  not  an 
intuition,  it  must  have  been  something  very  like  one — 
some  transmission  of  a  half  contemptuous  thought  from 
the  brain  of  the  smart  groceryman  in  the  city  when  he 
ridiculed  the  price  Jed  asked  for  his  hand-made  brooms. 
Jed  pondered  over  the  matter  much,  but  never  could  recall 
the  source  of  his  information.  But  when  he  lay  in  his 
last  illoess,  watching  the  shadow  of  the  hopvine  on  the 
blinds,  all  these  tormenting  thoughts  vanished.  The 
murmurs  that  fell  from  his  lips  were  all  of  other  days,  of 
hop  picking,  of  England,  of  Kentish  lanes  and  birds,  of 
one  whom  he  named  lovingly  as  "  Myron  lass  "  and  yet  did 
not  seem  to  identify  with  the  girl  who  waited  upon  him 
so  untiringly,  under  the  direction  of  her  grandmother,  an 
old,  old  woman,  bent  with  rheumatism,  anc^  hard  of  face 
and  heart,  whose  lips  set  cruelly  and  syes  grew  stony  when 
her  gray-haired  son  babbled  of  "Myron  lass."     When  he 


12 


THE    UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


lay  in  his  coffin  slio  could  not  grieve,  for  raging  that  he 
was  not  to  lie  with  all  his  kin  in  Kent. 

She  made  Myron  suffer  vicariously  for  her  long  dead 
mother,  whose  death  coming  soon  after  Myron's  birth  had 
driven  Jed  Holder  to  seek  strange  scenes,  away  from  where 
he  had  known  the  fullest  happiness  of  which  he  was  capable. 

But  Myron  bore  her  grandmother's  bad  temper  witli 
jiatience  and  without  bitterness.  Her  father  often  said 
to  her,  "  The  yeast  is  bitter,  but  it  is  the  yeast  that  makes 
bread  sweet." 

Jed  Holder  died  one  day  in  autumn,  when  the  aromatic 
green  cones  had  been  picked  from  the  hops  and  lay 
browning  upon  paper-covered  boards  in  the  sun.  The  last 
breath  Jed  Holder  drew  savored  of  their  fragrance,  and 
the  aroma  of  the  hops  dispelled  the  faint  odor  of  mor- 
tality in  the  death  chamber. 

The  winter  succeeding  his  death  was  a  long  and  bitter 
one.  Fuel  was  high ;  and  however  sparingly  bought,  still 
the  plainest  provisions  cost  money.  Albeit  Myron  and 
her  grandmother  lived  frugally,  yet  they  exhausted  Jed's 
poor  hoardings  very  soon.     Spring  found  them  penniless. 

But  in  summer,  life  is  more  easily  sustained,  and  Myron 
found  various  occupations  which  sufficed  to  keep  her 
grandmother  in  tolerable  comfort.  Hoeing  and  weeding, 
cleaning  house  and  berrying,  doing  extra  washings,  cook- 
ing for  threshers  and  harvesters,  all  had  their  part  in 
Myron's  busy  life.  Her  grandmother  was  never  satisfied 
cither  with  her  ability  or  her  willingness  to  work;  but  for 
all  that  she  worked,  and  worked  well  too. 

There  was  soon  proof  positive  of  this  given  her  grand- 
mother, for  after  Myron  had  helped  in  the  half  yearly 
saturnalia  of  work  Mrs.  Deans  called  "house  cleaning," 
the  latter  arranged  to  have  Myron  come  to  the  farm  daily 
to  help  the  bound  girl. 


THE    UNTI'MrEI<:E:>    ll'LVP 


13 


For  that  summer  Mrs.  Deans  had  boarders — boarders 
wlio  read,  and  walked,  and  brought  in  great  bunches  of 
golden  rod,  and  masses  of  wild  aster,  and  long  trails  of 
virgin  bower  clematis. 

There  were  Mrs.  and  Miss  Rexton,  Miss  Carpenter  and 
Dr.  Henry  Willis,  a  young  medico.  They  had  all  driven 
to  the  lake  one  day  from  the  Mineral  Spring  Hotel,  where 
they  were  stopping.  The  lake  curved  in  a  shining  semi- 
circle round  Jamestown,  and  swept  off  in  ever-widening 
curves  far  away,  until  sky  and  water  blended  in  a  band  of 
blinding  silver  radiance.  The  party  of  four  had  been 
caught  in  a  thunderstorm,  and  sought  refuge  on  Mrs. 
Deans'  veranda. 

Then  and  there  they  had  decided  that  they  must  come 
there  for  the  rest  of  the  summer,  and  with  one  accord  set 
about  persuading  Mrs.  Deans  to  give  her  consent.  Of  a 
truth  their  persuasion  would  have  had  little  effect  upon 
that  worthy  woman,  had  not  the  remuneration  suggested 
seemed  to  her  quite  extravagantly  sufficient;  therefore  she 
was  pleased  at  length  to  accede  to  their  request,  and  a  few 
days  later  found  the  quartette  comfortably  settled  at  Mrs. 
Deans'. 

Miss  Carpenter  was  Dr.  Willis'  maiden  aunt.  Miss  Rexton 
believed  herself  to  be  his  affinity  and  hoped  that  he  agreed 
with  her.     Mrs.  Rexton  was  a  chattel  of  her  daughter's. 

Myron  Holder's  duties  were  now  made  more  manifold 
than  ever,  but  she  was  well  content  that  it  should  be  so; 
only  the  long  mile  she  walked  night  and  morning  from 
and  to  the  village  tired  her  greatly,  taking  the  edge  off  her 
vitality  in  the  morning  and  utterly  exhausting  her  at 
night.  So  Mrs.  Deans  proposed  that  she  should  stay  all 
night  at  the  farm;  not  actuated  by  any  kindly  thought  for 
Myron,  but  because,  like  the  good  financier  that  she  was, 
she  wanted  to  get  her  money's  worth  out  of  her. 


M 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


As  for  old  Mrs.  Holder,  she  had  uo  timid  qualms  about 
staying  alone :  she  missed  the  little  scraps  of  news,  however, 
that  Myron  always  had  to  tell,  and — unconsciously — 
suffered  from  lack  of  some  one  to  berate. 

The  summer  passed  slowly — autumn  came.  Mrs.  Beans' 
boarders  departed.  Myron  Holder  once  more  walked  the 
mile  night  and  morning;  she  had  had  a  hard  summer's 
work.  Her  hands  and  wrists  were  reddened  and  coars- 
ened ;  her  face  was  very  pale,  and  histrc  shades  lingered 
about  her  eyes.  But  she  and  her  grandmother  had  to  live, 
and  after  December  snows  were  blowing  she  still  trudged 
the  mile  back  and  forth. 

It  was  only  by  great  chance  that  Mrs.  Deans  retained 
Myron's  services;  but  her  son,  a  loutish  young  man  of 
twenty- two,  had  fallen  from  a  hickory-nut  tree  and  dislo- 
cated his  hip. 

The  increasing  attention  he  demanded,  and  the  care  of 
her  poultry,  and  her  accumulated  sewing  kept  Mrs.  Deans 
fully  occupied.  So  Myron  Holder  continued  her  daily 
attendance  at  the  Deans  farm.  January  and  February 
passed.  March  was  blowing  its  wildest,  when  one  day 
Myron  Holder  did  not  come  to  Mrs.  Deans'. 

The  latter  waited  fuming,  resolved,  as  she  expressed 
it,  to  "give  Myron  Holder  a  fine  hearing  when  she  did 
come." 

Mrs.  Deans  was  always  promising  somebody  or  other  a 
"  hearing,"  which,  by  the  bye,  was  an  exceedingly  misleading 
term,  for  in  the  conversation  thus  referred  to  the  other 
party  did  the  listening  whilst  Mrs.  Deans  talked. 

The  wild  wind  of  the  morning  had  intensified  into  a 
bitter  sleet,  which  darted  its  blasts  into  the  face  like  sharp- 
pointed  lashes,  when  Mrs.  Deans  heard  a  knock  at  the  side 
door.  She  opened  it  herself  to  find  old  Mrs.  Holder,  bent, 
wet,  furious,  standing  in  the  slush.     Mrs.  Deans  b^de  her 


THE    UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


15 


come  in,  with  a  meaning  look  at  the  corn  husk  miit  before 
the  door. 

Mrs.  Ilohler  paid  no  heed  to  tlie  look,  but  with  muddy 
feet  stepped  into  the  room  fair  upon  Mrs.  Deans'  new  rag 
carpet,  and  standing  tliere,  a  quaint  old  figure,  clad  in  tho 
forgotten  fashion  of  tliirty  years  back,  proceeded  to  give 
Mrs.  Deans  what  that  lady  herself  would  have  called  **  a 
hearing." 

Mrs.  Deans  had  a  ready  tongue,  an  inventive  imagina- 
tion, a  fund  of  vituperative  imagery,  and  a  pleasant  habit 
of  drowning  the  voice  of  any  one  who  chose  to  contradict 
her;  but  in  one's  own  house,  to  be  confronted  in  this  way, 
abused  for  some  unknown  crime,  covered  with  contumely, 
and  showered  with  contemptuous  epithets,  and  all  from  an 
old  woman  whose  granddaughter  was  honored  in  doing 
one's  kitchen  work,  was  not  conducive  to  dignity  and  pres- 
ence of  mind. 

Mrs.  Deans  was  too  old  a  scold,  however,  to  be  routed 
without  an  effort  to  vindicate  herself.  Finding  it  vain  to 
wait  an  opportunity  for  speech  (Mrs.  Holder  never  seemed 
to  pause  for  breath),  she  simply  began  to  talk  also — 
Myron's  non-appearance,  Mrs.  Holder's  impertinence, 
and  her  own  mystification  giving  ample  subject-matter 
for  her  eloquence  to  do  justice  to. 

But  Mrs.  Holder  talked  on,  apparently  unconscious  of 
Mrs.  Deans'  remarks — finally  she  hurled  one  direct  ques- 
tion at  the  latter:  "  Did  you  know — that's  what  I  want  to 
find  out — did  ye?  And  if  ye  did,  what  d'ye  think  of  your- 
self?    You " 

She  was  about  to  branch  off  into  a  personal  description 
of  Mrs.  Deans — somewhat  unflattering — when  the  latter 
seized  her  cue. 

"Did  I  know  what?"  she  demanded. 

Mrs  Holder  came  to  a  dead  stop  and  looked  at  her. 


l6 


THE    UN  TEMPER  ED   WIND 


"Did  I  know  what?"  reiterated  Mrs.  Deans  niajesticall}'. 

"Did  you  know — Myron — "  she  stopijod,  this  thing  waa 
dittlcult  to  frame  in  words. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Deans. 

"  Did  you  know  Myron  was — would  be — had — "  again 
the  vohiblo  Mrs.  Holder  faltered.  Mrs.  Deans  looked  at 
Mrs.  Holder — and  something  whimpered  to  her  what  Mrs. 
Holder  could  not  say.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me — "  she 
paused — lilling  up  the  hiatus  with  an  elvKpient  look. 

Then  she  loosened  the  tides  of  her  indignation,  and 
sweeping  aside  all  memories  of  Myron's  honesty,  and  faith- 
ful service,  and  patience,  launched  against  her  the  full 
flood  of  her  invective. 

Presently  Mrs.  Holder  chimed  in:  there  was  something 
absurd  yet  tragically  repulsive  in  these  two  women,  but  a 
moment  before  reviling  each  other,  now  absorbed  only  in 
the  desire  to  outvie  each  other  in  the  epithets  they  hurled 
against  the  girl — the  granddaughter  of  the  one,  the  uncom- 
plaining servant  of  the  other. 

Their  attitude,  however,  was  prophetically  typical  of  the 
treatment  Myron  Holder  was  to  receive.  The  whole  vil- 
lage forgot  its  private  quarrels  to  point  the  finger  at  its 
common  victim.  Beset  witii  all  the  frightful  anticipations 
of  motherhood,  bowed  beneath  the  burden  of  a  shame  she 
appreciated  and  accepted,  hounded  nearly  to  madness  by 
her  grandmother's  jibes  and  reproaches,  Myron  Holder's 
heart  was  wellnigh  desperate. 

The  spring  winds  brought  her  dreadful  suggestions  of 
despair.  The  first  hepaticas  shone  up  at  her  as  balefully 
as  the  lighted  fagots  to  a  martyr's  eye.  The  springing 
hopvines  seemed  to  twine  their  tendrils  tight  and  tighter 
about  her  heart.  All  the  scents  and  sounds  of  spring  were 
ever  after  to  her  an  exquisite  torture.  But  her  soul  was 
of  strong  fibre. 


THE   VNTEMPERED  WIND 


%^ 


Before  all  the  Hcorn  of  the  village,  sill  the  rebukes  of 
Mrs.  J)euii8,  all  the  wrath  of  her  graiulmotlier,  all  the 
bitterness  and  misery  and  hopelessness  of  her  own  heart, 
Myron  Holder  was  mute. 

No  murmur  escaped  her  lips  againEt  the  man  who  had 
forsaken  her.  The  village  knew  her  shame,  but  it  couhl 
not  fathom  her  secret.  Myron  Holder  was  deaf  to  all  com- 
mands, entreaties,  persuasions,  sneers.  Iler  face,  holy 
with  the  divine  shadow  of  coming  maternity,  turned  to 
her  questioners  an  indecipherable  page — writ  large  with 
characters  of  shame  and  sorrow,  but  telling  naught  else. 

•  •••••• 

There  came  a  night  when  Myron  Holder  descended 
into  that  hell  of  suffering  called  child-birth — straggled 
with  prolonged  agony — lielpless  and  alone — and  cried  aloud 
— to  that  dead  father — to  that  unknown  mother — to  God 
— for  Death. 

Myron  Holder  was  a  woman  and  had  come  to  years  of 
knowledge,  and  her  fall  was  doubtless  a  sin  and  a  shame 
to  her — black  and  unforgivable;  but  far  as  Myron  Holder 
had  fallen,  deep  as  was  her  humiliation,  black  as  was  her 
shame,  inexcusable  her  error,  she  still  shines  in  effulgent 
whiteness  when  compared  with  those  women  who  refused 
her  aid  that  long  night  through,  demanding  as  recom- 
pense for  their  ministering  the  betrayal  of  her  betrayer. 
Myron  Holder  would  not  pay  their  price. 

The  dim  gray  dawn  lighted  the  pain -scarred  face  of  a 
sleeping  mother,  by  whose  side  reposed  a  fair-haired  child; 
a  child  the  secret  of  whose  parentage  was  still  locked 
within  its  mother's  heart. 


"  Them  kind  always  lives,"  Mrs.  Warner  said  to  her  hus- 
band, when,  on  a  June  morning,  she  ?aw  Myron  Holder 
2 


18 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


totter  past  her  door.  Mrs.  Warner  should  have  thanked 
the  God  she  worshipped,  fasting,  that  it  was  so:  had 
Myron  Holder  died,  no  woman  in  all  Jamestown  would 
have  been  free  from  blood-f uiltiness.  They  had  beheld  a 
woman  in  such  extremity  as  moved  the  hearts  of  Inquisi- 
tors, stayed  the  torch  of  persecution,  shackled  the  relentless 
rack,  deferred  the  vengeance  of  the  law,  and  had  withheld 
their  hands  from  helping. 

Those  sanie   hands  which  wrought  garments  for  the 
heathen  and  shamed  L'it  to  offer  their  alms  to  God! 


CHAPTER  III. 


**  It  is  a  wild  and  miserable  world, 
Thorny  and  full  of  care, 
Which  every  friend  can  make  his  prey  at  will.  " 

"  Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong.  " 

Beneath  the  quietness  of  Myron  Holder's  manner 
there  raged  a  very  chaos  of  reckless,  despairing  thought. 
It  is  undeniable  that  at  this  time  no  maternal  love 
Tvarmed  her  heart  towards  her  child. 

There  was  one  night — one  dreadful  night — whose  mem- 
ory stained  forever  even  the  dark  pages  of  her  retrospect. 
A  night  through  the  long  hours  of  which  she  lay  and 
thought  of  death — not  to  herbelf — but  to  the  sleeping 
infant  at  her  side.  All  the  tales  she  had  ever  heard  of 
desperate  women's  crimes  came  to  her,  assailing  her 
weakened  will  and  tired  brain  with  insidious  suggestions 
of  safety,  and  freedom,  and  immunity  from  blame. 

Pallid,  she  rose  in  the  early  dawn.     As  she  passed  the 


imI^I 


THE   UNTEMPEP.ED  WIND 


10 


id 
Id 
a 

• 

1- 

ss 
Id 

le 


I II 


old  English  mirror  in  its  sliabby  gilt  franc,  she  caught  a 
fleeting  glimpse  of  burning  cheeks,  cracking  parched  lips 
and  bloodshot  eyes.  She  withdrew  her  glance  shud- 
dering. 

It  was  very  early  in  the  morning.  She  crossed  the 
kitchen,  and  softly  opening  the  door  looked  forth  upon  the 
unawaken'jd  world.  The  air  was  somewhat  chilly,  but  sweet 
and  soft.  A  heavy  dew  spread  a  pearly  film  over  the 
grass,  broken  here  and  there  by  a  silvery  shield,  where 
the  spider  webs  held  the  moisture :  gossamers  they  are  in 
these  early  morning  hours  when  the  world  is  pure  and 
quiet, — shreds  of  the  Madonna's  winding  sheet,  as  we  all 
know.  But  what  are  they  when  the  dew  is  gone  and  they 
are  laden  with  the  dust  and  soot  and  gi  imc  of  the  long  hot 
day?     Gossamers  still? 

Down  between  the  trees  she  could  see  the  dull  glimmer 
01  the  lake,  awaiting  the  sun  to  strike  it  into  silver;  a  few 
pale  stars  lingered,  loath  to  bid  the  world  good-by  before 
the  moon,  which,  a  wraith-like  orb,  still  soared  on  high, 
white  and  diaphanous.  All  was  calm,  passionless,  and  pure. 
As  Myron  Holder  looked  there  grew  within  her  soul  a  sick 
shuddering  against  the  woman  of  the  past  night.  She  saw 
herself  vile  where  all  was  holy,  passionate  where  all  was 
peace.  And  from  her  soul,  a  plea,  indefinite  in  aspira- 
tion, and  vaguely  voyaging  to  some  unknown  haven,  went 
forth,  that  her  old  heart  might  be  vouchsafed  to  her,  her 
own  suffering,  fearing,  trusting,  loving,  betrayed  heart, 
instead  of  this  throbbing  centre  of  pain  with  its  bitter 
blood  of  despair  and  hate. 

Slow  resolutions  began  to  stir  in  her  heart:  she  would  go 
through  the  world  "  spending  and  being  spent  "  for  others: 
she  would  be  patient  to  her  grandmother,  always  remem- 
bering she  had  shamed  her :  she  would  be  true  and  faithful 
and  self-sacrificing  in  every  relation  she  assumed  to  others : 


*•.- 


30 


THE    tUVTlMPEKED  WIND 


she  would  be  sympathetic  to  all  and  she  would  die  soon, 
very  soon,  she  thought,  and  the  village  would  mourn  her 
and  at  last  speak  of  her  with  loving  kindness.  Poor 
Myron!  Like  "many  mighty  men,"  she  did  not  realize 
the  utter  barreness  of  a  posthumous  joy  or  understand 
how  diffident  Death  can  be  when  wooed. 

Her  mood  was  jarred  by  the  child's  cry  and  the  grand- 
mother's querulous  complaint.  She  turned  1  )m  the 
morning  just  as  the  sun's  rays  shot  across  the  lake. 

As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  do  so  she  resumed  her  work — 
bending  over  her  toil,  a  patient  figure  in  a  worn  blue  print 
gown  and  dark  sunbonnet,  a  humble  mark  she  seemed  for 
public  scorn :  yet  all  the  scandal  and  spite  of  the  scurrilous 
little  village  played  about  her. 

As  Mrs.  Disney  expressed  it,  old  Mrs.  Holder  "  took  it 
most  terrible  hard":  therefore  the  village  matrons  con- 
tracted a  habit  of  running  in  at  all  hours  to  the  little  hop- 
clad  house  and  condoling  with  Mrs.  Holder,  and  with  her 
speculating  as  to  the  identity  of  the  child's  father. 

Now  and  then  these  zealous  comforters  rather  overdid 
the  matter,  notably  when  Mrs.  Weaver,  with  a  view  of 
exonerating  Mrs.  Holder  from  all  blame  and  relieving  her  of 
all  responsibility  for  Myron's  behavior,  remarked  that 
"  It  did  seem  as  if  bad  was  born  in  some  people." 

Old  Mrs.  Holder  rose  at  that,  and  speedily  made  Mrs. 
Weaver  aware  that  Myron's  badness  was  purely  sporadic, 
and  that  heredity  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  She  did  not 
express  herself  in  this  way,  but  conveyed  the  same  idea 
much  more  forcibly. 

It  is  possible  that,  being  Myron's  grandmother,  she  felt 
a  slight  reflection  from  Mrs.  Weaver's  well-meant  sugges- 
tion that  Myron  had  inherited  vice  as  her  birthright;  be 
that  as  it  may,  she  speedily  made  Mrs.  Weaver  aware  that 
if  there  was  any  truth  in  such  an  idea,  she  herself  must  be 


m 


'U. 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


21 


fl 


lat 
be 


ill  a  perilous  state:  the  old  Englishwoman  had  managed 
to  glean  pretty  accurate  data  about  the  Jamestown  people, 
and  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Weaver's  mother  had  "  tript  in  her 
time."  Mrs.  Weaver  called  no  more  upon  Mrs.  Holder, 
but  the  others  showed  no  abatement  of  their  zeal. 

These  good  Jamestown  women  had  a  pleasant  habit  of 
sitting  with  Mrs.  Holder  until  Myron's  form  appeared  at 
noon  or  night.  They  gazed  at  her  while  she  opened  the 
gate,  trod  the  little  path  past  the  front  door,  and  until  she 
turned  the  corner:  when  Vice  in  the  person  of  Myron 
entered  the  back  door.  Virtue  embodied  in  one  or  more 
of  Jamestown's  matrons  fled  from  the  front  door,  hearing, 
ere  the  gate  was  reached,  the  first  measures  of  the  jere- 
miad with  which  her  grandmother  greeted  her.  There 
was  little  wonder  that  Myron  Holder  grew  morbidly  ner- 
vous and  supersensitive.  She  would  scarce  have  been 
responsible  for  any  deed,  however  evil. 

All  the  morning  the  anticipated  agony  of  the  ordeal  of 
walking  up  the  path,  under  these  scathing  eyes,  oppressed 
and  tortured  her.  No  martyr  ever  contemplated  with 
greater  dread  the  red-hot  ploughshares  than  Myron  Holder 
did  those  few  yards  of  red  trodden  earth,  bordered  by  fox 
grass  and  burdock  lea-'os. 

Through  the  long  hours  of  the  slow  afternoons  she 
braced  herself  for  the  return  home  at  night,  but  she  did 
not  try  to  elude  any  of  the  humiliations  of  her  position. 
The  garden  gate  was  terrible  to  her  as  the  surgeon's  knife 
to  the  sufferer — for  the  hasp  was  loosened  and  twisted,  tb.e 
gate  had  to  be  lifted  before  it  could  be  opened,  and  some- 
times she  was  kept  fumbling  with  the  fastening  until  the 
blood  swam  before  her  eyes  in  a  red  mist. 

Doubtless  she  should  have  considered  all  these  painf-ul 
contingencies  and  walked  more  heedfully,  but  the  thought, 
which  the  Jamestown  matrons  often  quoted,  did  not,  p2 


I  i 


22 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


they  seemed  to  think  it  should,  dull  the  pain  of  the  thou- 
sand stings  she  received  daily — it  only  pressed  them  home. 
There  are  many 

"  Dainty  themes  of  grief 
In  sadness  t  o  outiast  the  mom ; " 

but  the  tale  of  Myron  Holder's  expiation  is  not  one  of 
them — it  is  a  sordid  theme,  yet,  being  human,  not  too 
sordid  to  be  writ  out.  It  is  a  painful  relation ;  but  when 
one  woman  lived  it,  we  may  not  shrink  from  contemplat- 
ing it,  nor  hesitate  to  view  step  by  step  the  way  one  woman 
trod. 

The  first  summer  of  her  child's  life  wore  away. 
Autumn  came  before  Myron  Holder  was  goaded  into  any 
demonstration  of  her  suffering. 

She  was  one  day  working  for  Mr.  Disney,  who  worked 
old  Mr.  Carroll's  place  on  shares.  It  was  the  time  of  the 
apple  harvest.  All  day  long  they  had  been  picking,  gath- 
ering, sorting,  and  carrying  the  heavy  fruit.  Between  Mr. 
Carroll  and  Mr.  Disney  was  waged  a  continual  war  of  wits, 
each  endeavoring  to  get  the  better  of  the  other.  The 
afternoon  was  far  spent  when  old.- Mr.  Carroll  came  limp- 
ing out,  bent  and  thin,  only  his  erectness  of  poise  when 
he  stood  still  evidencing  the  old  soldier. 

The  fr  it  had  been  divided  into  two  long  heaps,  alike  in 
their  dimensions,  but,  as  all  the  pickers  knew,  of  widely 
different  quality. 

The  grass  was  sere  and  yellowed,  the  sapless  apple  leaves 
fell  in  rustling  showers  at  the  lightest  breath  of  wind,  and 
now  and  then  an  apple  fell  with  a  dull  sound  upon  the 
earth.  The  brown  side  of  the  drive-house  formed  a 
neutral  background  into  which  all  the  sombre  tints  of  the 
little  scene  blended,  save  the  brilliant  reds  and  yellows  of 
the  two  long  piles  of  apples. 


f' 


1 


THE    UNTEMTERED  WIND 


23 


^P- 


|in 


les 

id 
le 
a 


(fi 


"Well,  Mr.  Disney — got  the  apples  sorted?''  asked  Mr. 
Carroll  with  liffectcd  geniality.  Mr.  Disney,  a  shallow- 
witted  man,  was  betrayed  by  the  smile  on  the  lips  into 
disregard  of  the  cold  eyes,  and  replied  with  rash  effu- 
siveness: 

"  Yes — picked,  sorted,  divided,  sold,  almost  cooked  and 
eaten."      Old  Mr.  Carroll's  smile  froze. 

"Which  is  my  pile?"  he  asked  with  an  indescribable 
intonation  of  sarcastic  contempt,  which  pierced  even 
Disney's  denseness  and  made  a  slow  red  gather  to  his 
cheeks  as  he  answered — "  That  one." 

"Then  I'll  take  this  one,"  replied  Mr.  Carroll,  indicating 
the  other.  Disney  faltered  then — wanted  to  re-divide — 
and  managed  to  confuse  himself  completely.  Mr.  Carroll 
listened  contemptuously;  his  keen  old  eyes  had  discerned 
the  mud  on  the  apples  in  the  heap  assigned  to  him,  and  he 
had  decided,  rightly  enough,  that  they  were  windfalls. 

D'sney's  half-hearted  plea  for  a  re-division  was  manifestly 
absurd,  and  the  caustic  old  man  enjoyed  a  pleasant  half- 
hour  in  ridiculing  the  idea.  For  once  he  had  his  enemy 
fairly  "on  the  hip." 

Tne  end  of  it  was  that  presently,  when  Mr.  Warner 
drove  past,  he  saw  old  Mr.  Carroll  enthroned  upon  an 
upturned  bushel  basket,  his  cynical  old  eyes  gleaming  with 
amusement,  his  feet  shifting  restlessly  with  delight,  his 
tongue  irritating  Disney  almost  beyond  endurance. 

He  had  placed  himself  on  the  side  of  the  drive-house 
door  and  demanded  that  his  apples  be  carried  in  then  and 
there.  Disney  longed  to  refuse,  but  his  agreement  pro- 
vided that  he  perform  all  the  labor  of  harvesting  and  stor- 
ing Mr.  Carroll's  share.  There  was  nothinj,  for  it, 
therefore,  but  to  obey  the  irascible  old  man,  who,  in 
numerous  playful  ways,  made  the  carrying  in  of  the  fruit 
a  .weariness  of  the  flesh  to  Disney.     He  stopped  him  to 


111! 


24 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


pull  stray  wisps  of  grass  out  of  his  pails,  or  to  examine  a 
parely  imaginary  blemish  in  an  apple.  Ho  let  his  cane 
slip  down  so  that  Disney  tripped  over  it."  He  took  one  of 
the  pails,  and  pretended  to  fix  one  of  the  handles,  which 
was  perfectly  secure  as  it  was — and  all  the  time  he  talked, 
gently,  irritatingly,  making  the  most  innocent  of  pauses 
for  replies  that  Di«ney  felt  ho  must  make,  l^ut  which  ho 
made  as  briefly  as  possible. 

The  afternoon  waned ;  finally  the  last  apple  of  the  heap 
was  transferred  to  the  drive-house.  Then  Mr.  Carroll 
rose,  trying  his  best  to  conceal  the  stiffness  of  his  joints 
from  Disney,  locked  the  drive-house  door  and  limped  off 
to  his  lonely  house,  solitary  but  triumphant. 

A  little  later  he  watched  the  departure  of  the  disgusted 
Disney  and  his  pickers — Myron  Holder  dragging  wearily 
home  alone,  body  and  heart  alike  aching;  the  rest  slyly 
nudging  one  another,  with  meaning  looks  at  Disney's  sullen 
face. 

Still  later,  when  Mr.  Carroll  blew  out  his  yellow  wax 
candle,  he  pushed  aside  the  limp  white  blind,  raised  the 
many-paned  window  and  looked  forth  into  the  moonlight. 
It  was  very  clear  and  quiet.  Disney's  pile  of  apples  lay 
roughly  outlined  beneath  its  covering  of  old  sacks.  Mr. 
Carroll  looked  at  it  amusedly — as  he  looked  a  stray  apple, 
left  swinging  unseen,  fell.  As  the  sound  reached  his  ears 
a  malevolent  smile  irradiated  his  face.  Still  smiling,  he 
put  the  window  down,  let  the  blind  fall  and  sought  sleep. 

That  night  Myron  Holder  traversed  the  road  home  in 
the  deepest  dejection ;  forced  to  endure  all  day  the  covert 
sneers  of  the  other  pickers,  with  extreme  bodily  weariness 
added  to  her  mental  burden,  helpless  as  a  fly  from  which  a 
wanton  hand  has  torn  the  wings,  she  felt,  as  she  trod  her 
solitary  way  home,  utterly  despairing. 

Ere  she  was  fairly  within  the  doors  her  grandmother's 


I 


THE    UNTEMPKREn    WIND 


25 


He, 
irs 


lin 
jrt 


If' 


taunting  words  met  her.  Kou^ed  from  her  long  Jipjitliy 
of  mute  endurance,  she  tore  her  sunbonnet  from  her  liead 
and  flashed  one  dreadful  look  of  rage  and  defiance  at  the 
old  woman — such  a  look  as  made  Mrs.  Holder  stagger 
back,  holding  up  her  hand  as  if  to  shield  herself  from  a 
blow.  Terrified  at  the  turmoil  in  her  own  breast,  Myron 
turned  and  fled  into  her  room.  She  saw  the  boy's  little 
form  upon  the  blue  and  white  checked  counterpane  of 
her  bed,  she  rushed  up  to  the  couch,  her  hands  were 
clenched,  her  heart  seemed  throbbing  in  her  throat. 
Dreadful  thoughts  circled  about  her,  wild  and  diverse,  but 
all  hung  upon  the  one  axis  of  pain.  Half  in  delirium,  she 
bent  oyer  the  child.  It  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled,  and 
stirred  feebly,  but  yet  as  if  its  impulses  made  towards 
her.     With  a  cry  she  caught  it  to  her  bosom. 

There  was  one  creature  that  yet  smiled  upon  her. 
Thereafter,  from  day  to  day,  throughout  the  long  winter, 
her  adoration  of  her  child  waxed  stronarer  and  stronger. 

Every  instant  she  could  spare  from  her  toiling  she  held 
it  in  her  arms.  On  Sunday,  when  good  Jamestown  people 
did  no  extra  work,  Myron  Holder  had  her  only  pleasure. 
For  then  she  shut  herself  into  her  room  with  the  child, 
whispering  to  it,  caressing  it,  soothing  it  when  awake,  and 
during  its  long  slisep  holding  it  with  loving  avarice  in 
her  arms,  too  greedy  of  the  cherished  weight  to  relinquish 
it  to  the  couch. 

Her  grandmother  managed  even  from  this  tenderness  to 
distill  some  bitter  drops  to  add  to  Myron's  cup.  She 
dwelt  long  and  eloquently  upon  the  wrong  Myron  had 
done  the  child.  Slowly  the  winter  passed,  and  Mrs.  Deans 
once  more  hired  Myron  Holder  to  come  to  the  farm  daily. 
The  child  was  left  with  old  Mrs.  Holder,  while  Myron 
earned  a  subsistence  for  all  three. 

What  Myron  Holder  endured  daily  no  words  can  tell. 


I! 


36 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


By  what  written  sign  may  we  symbolize  the  agony  of  a 
Iieart,  bruised  and  pierced  and  crushed  day  after  dayr  By 
wliat  hmguage  express  the  torture  of  a  pure  soul,  stifled  in 
a  chrysalis  of  shame? 

Some  souls  may  be  purified  by  fire,  doubtless,  as  the  old 
Greeks  cleansed  their  asbestos  fabrics;  but  we  should  be 
wary  how  we  thrust  our  fellows  into  the  furnace,  for  no 
base  tissue  will  stand  the  fire,  and  a  soul,  to  emerge  un- 
smirched  and  undestroyed,  must  be  of  strong  fibre  indeed. 


CHAPTER   IV. 


"  O  Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  not  save  my  soul, 
Who  may  be  saved?    Who  is  it  may  be  saved? 
Who  may  be  made  a  saint  if  I  fail  here?" 

"  As  who  should  say  :  '  I  am  Sir  Oracle, 
And  when  I  ope  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark  !' " 

There  are  doubtless  a  few  of  us  in  the  world  capable  of 
judging  and  pronouncing  sentence  upon  the  rest. 

It  is  unfortunately  inevitable,  however,  that  such  capa- 
bilities remain  forever  underestimated,  and  the  possessors 
rarely  receive  the  acknowledgments  due  from  an  ungrate- 
ful world. 

Mrs.  Deans  was  one  of  the  chosen  few  who  recognize 
their  own  infallibility,  and  accept  as  a  sacred  trust  the 
knowledge  that  they  are  indispensable.  To  be  a  god,  Mr?. 
Deans  only  lacked  the  minor  attribute  of  immortality — a 
want  of  which  she  was  herself  unconscious. 

Mrs.  Deans  strove  earnestly  to  better  her  neighbors  and 
cause  them  to  conform  to  her  standards  of  what  was  right. 
She  was  a  firm  believer  that  "  open  rebuke  is  better  than 
secret  love,"  and  whatever  risk  Myron  ran,  under  Mrs, 


\ 


J 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


27 


of 


)a- 
)r3 


ce- 


ze 


-a 


ll 


i 


Deans'  rule  she  incurred  no  danger  of  being  "  carried  to 
the  skies  on  flowery  beds  of  ease" — a  thing  much  to  be 
dreaded.  Nor  was  there  any  possibility  of  her  forgetting, 
for  a  half-hour  at  a  time,  the  light  in  which  Mrs.  Deans 
viewed  her,  which  was,  of  course,  tlie  somewhat  trying 
illumination  that  the  Children  of  Light  project  upon  the 
Children  of  Darkness. 

Mrs.  Deans  had  a  modestly  good  opinion  of  herself. 
"  Thou  art  the  salt  of  the  earth"  impressed  iicr  with  all  the 
directness  of  a  personal  remark.  Those  Avho  enjoyed  the 
privileges  of  Mrs.  Deans'  household  were,  first  and  least, 
her  husband — Henry  Deans.  He  was  a  small  man,  with 
"a  little  wee  face,  with  a  little  yellow  beard,  a  Cain-col- 
ored beard."  It  was  five  years  since  his  horses,  running 
away  as  ho  returned  from  the  market  town,  capsized  him 
over  a  steep  bank,  down  which  the  barrel  of  salt  he  had 
bought  rolled  also,  and,  striking  him  in  the  back,  partially 
paralyzed  him. 

Since  that  time  he  had  sat  under  his  wife's  ministry. 
In  summer  the  back  porch  held  his  chair,  in  winter  the 
kitchen.  By  keeping  a  careful  eye  upon  the  bound  girl, 
he  sometimes  discovered  her  in  a  dereliction ;  it  was  a  happy 
hour  for  him  when  this  was  the  case.  It  had  the  effect  of 
distracting  his  wife's  attention  from  him,  for  one  thing — 
and  when  too  closely  centred  upon  any  one  person,  Mrs. 
Deans'  regard  was  apt  to  prove  embarrassing;  it  also  won 
him  much  commendation  from  her — being  convinced  of 
the  utter  depravity  of  the  bound  girl,  both  "  individually 
and  collectively,"  it  gratified  Mrs.  Deans  to  have  her 
"moral  certainty"  attested  by  positive  proofs.  It  made 
her  realize  her  seer-like  qualities. 

Mrs.  Deans'  son,  Gamaliel,  known  to  his  fond  mother  as 
"Maley,"  and  to  Jamestown  as  "Male,"  stood  first  in  his 
mother's  regard. 


28 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


I     i    I 


I 


Gamaliel  was  Mrs.  Deans'  idea  of  a  "fancy"  name. 
She  had  hesitated  long  before  bestowing  it.  upon  her 
boy,  wavering  between  Gamaliel  and  Ambrose.  She 
finally  decided  upon  the  former,  it  being  more  uncommon. 
The  son  of  Mrs.  Deans'  sister-in-law's  brother  was  called 
Ambrose — and,  also,  Gamaliel  was,  as  Mrs.  Deans  said, 
"more  suitable,"  whether  to  her  son's  mental  or  physical 
endowments  she  did  not  specify.  Old  Mrs.  Holder  once  said 
she  never  could  "picture  out"  any  one  else  being  called 
Gamaliel,  nor  believe  that  Mrs.  Deans*  son  could  have  had 
any  other  name. 

He  was  a  stubborn  young  lout,  whose  strong  will  was  only 
subjective  to  his  mother'^  because  he  did  not  recognize  his 
own  strength.  She  had  curbed  him  as  he  bitted  the  huge 
young  Clydesdale  colts.  Sometimes  a  well-broken  horse 
realizes  its  own  strength,  and  we  hear  a  horrid  story  of 
torn  flesh  and  trampled  limbs  when  it  turns  to  rend  its 
master.  If  Gamaliel  Deans  ever  revolted,  his  mother 
would  suffer. 

However,  he  was  quiescent  enough,  for  his  mother's 
schemes  were  all  for  his  benefit.  Besides,  he  appreciated 
the  charms  of  a  quiet  life,  and  had  inherited  a  liberal 
share  of  the  diplomacy  his  paralytic  father  displayed  when 
he  feigned  sleep  for  long  hours  at  a  stretch,  hoping  that  he 
might  entrap  the  bound  girl  into  some  piece  of  unwary 
carelessness.  Both  Henry  Deans  and  his  son  Gamaliel 
had  a  deeply  rooted  belief  in  the  value  of  the  bound  girl 
as  a  counter-irritant. 

Mrs.  Deans  had  had  just  a  "  pigeon  pair"  of  children,  as 
Jamestown  put  it,  but  her  girl  had  died  when  an  infant. 
Mrs.  Deans  was  too  good  a  woman  not  to  bear  up  under 
the  loss,  especially  as  she  did  not  care  for  girls. 

The  bound  girl  made  up  the  regular  trio  which  Mrs. 
Peans  drove  before  her  oyer  roads  of  her  choosing. 


? 


I 


(  ! 


I 


) 


I 


THE    UNTEMVKREn   WIND 


S9 


It  is  unnecessary  to  say  much  of  the  bound  girl.  Mrs. 
Deans  described  them  often — "Evil  iucanuite,"  she 
called  them.  Mrs.  Deans  changed  her  bound  girls  now 
and  then.  They  came  to  her  with  all  the  different  merits 
and  various  vices  of  tlieir  unhappy  class.  They  left  her 
different  incarnations  of  the  same  weary,  broken,  deadened 
spirit  of  labor  and  endurance.  Their  individual  cluiraC' 
teristics,  capabilities  and  tendencies  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  witli  their  case.  Woman  and  mother  as  Mrs.  Deans 
was,  she  was  never  moved  by  their  peculiar  needs. 

It  is  requisite,  doubtless,  to  the  "(Jreat  Plan"  that 
there  be  l)ound  ones  among  us,  enduring — like  the 
hereditary  embalmer — the  parischito  of  Kgypt — a  loath- 
some heritage — and  yet — the  pity  of  it!  Jiut  Mrs.  Deans 
was  not  one  to  question  the  Providence  which  ordained 
for  these  bound  girls  their  lot  in  life. 

"They're  born  bad,  and  bad  they  are,  and  bad  they'll 
be — every  one  of  them — evil,  root  and  branch  ;  you  can't 
bo  up  to  them  and  their  ways."  These  were  Mrs.  Deans' 
sentiments  upon  the  subject  of  bound  girls,  and  other 
opinions  do  not  matter. 

The  hired  men  Mrs.  Deans  treated  with  the  deference 
due  to  those  who  must  be  conciliated  and  who  are  free 
agents.  !RIrs.  Deans,  if  not  exactly  harmless  as  the  tradi- 
tional dove,  had  at  least  a  smattering  of  the  wisdom  of  the 
serpent. 

Mrs.  Deans  was  distinctly  a  leader  in  Jamestown  society. 
She  was  a  very  good  woman,  liberal  to  the  Church,  fot-e- 
most  in  collecting  for  missions,  ready  to  head  a  donation 
list  at  any  time;  therefore  every  one  said  ]\Iyron  Holder 
was  very  lucky  to  have  won  Mrs.  Deans'  help.  That  this 
"help"  consisted  in  being  allowed  to  do  tlie  hardest  work 
under  the  most  intolerable  circumstances  for  very  meap^re 
pay,  they  did  not  stop  to  consider.     Mrs.  Deans  said  sho 


T 


W 


30 


^//^'  i^^^T£^'^J,^^J,  ,^^^^ 


P'oasant,  tl.at  tlic  Jan.cs  o   n  """  ''"«««  "•'e  u„. 

^oHookb,  „,o„  Mrs    S:  "i^r  r  TT  ""'  '»  "^  »"«'»  "l 
Mrs.  \V,„,,er  oxprcsso.i  ''«'"  "'  «  mHrtyr. 

7"  m  ui,  witl.  that  Mv  ;,.  V^T  r  ^""'  Mrs.  I)ea„s 
f « -a.  i„j,„,,,  ,,^,^3  ,„{:;     "f  ;;      «oi"g  about  as  if 

'"  lie  UmnMnl  to  be  let  i„tn I  ,  ''''''  '*'''«''  slic  oujrJ.t 

'"•■•  -Ling  J.eart  Was  a  1  bl  '"""  ''"'''«'•  ''"^  «bove 

-^■"^o  wbero  ,ve  do  IT^^ZT'  f'^ -""-'- 
"«elt  above  eensure.  '*'  '■"«'  JamcstoTO  feJt 

Jll    tllC    old      Piirifn 

«'»'cs  there  ,va.         Ln7""\'-"   «-  New  England 
;ceept.e,e  ,vere  buri  J  t lose  CC  b  n""  ''"  '  -■»-»- 
fron,  tbe  I>„,ita„s,  or  w],o  L    "^  '''"  "•  '''^'"•6"^  faith 
-s  e..ned  the  "da^ne;;.  r„er  "'C  T  "'  »"•     '^'"^ 
°"t  of  .eal  to  do  their  MasteWs  ,     L    •''■  "'^  ^"»'''"«. 
7?  to  facilitate  the  businesrlL,       >  """""•^'l  «  "'i 
«'e  goats,  or  whether  it  «,?'''"«  "'^  *«^P  ^rom 
own  sacred  d„st   from   cZV      V'' °^  ^o""""?  their 

;l"nmed  corno:,"  whe  ebl  'atb"'t7"\  '^^  »"  '>-«  « 

"f  onr  disai,i„.obation,     ve  deno  if  T,  ""'"''"•"W"  burden 

vrong.     Of  course,  con  mo,'    T  ^^  "'"^^  ^^  know   are 

'-se  spots  swept  ;ith  or  eritt7 ''''""■'=' "'•••'  '^«  ''^"P 

t've;  an^  ,..;,«„  it  ig  consit    ^^  r*  «'"-»'«l'od  with  invec 

«ven  Gamaliel  sometimes    1     'V""  «  *«■  »«<">«•    Ves 

^'00^  the  worth,::;  :r,,r.f""''^' "  ^''^ "« «'dt 

^^I's.  Deans'  m\^  i  sinecure. 

'-••  body.  Which ::;  ZoTT'^'y "'  •'-^-g-  to 

l-Portious.      y,,,^   fat:nd'T;,.t"'-"""'<'fgonL„: 


ami    „    A  L  "^  generous 

••nJ   good-temper   should  have 


t 

•J 


\ 


77//:    I'XTEMrEiaU)   in XI) 


31 


as  a 


icir 
tar. 
a 
icn 
jiro 
Icp 
Ic- 
Ics 


10 

Is 


^ 


14 


.:«., 
« 


l)con  80  l()i)g  i)rovi'rl)iiilly  jisHotMattul  i«  (linicuU  to  (lioconi ; 
ill  80  far  as  tl»o  ordinary  iniiid  can  analy/o,  it  would  seem 
as  if  adipose  was  a  distinet  excuse  for  bad  temper.  'I'o  be 
hotter  than  otlier  people  in  summer  and  not  so  cold  in 
winter  is  one  of  the  simplest  and  most  obvious  results  of 
fat — yet  who  sludl  say  tliia  is  conducive  to  synipatl'V  with 
other  people? 

Mrs.  ])eans  had  been  a  Warner,  and  was  inclined  to 
goitre.  Her  large  head,  with  its  oily  bands  of  fair  hair, 
was  always  somewhat  inclined  backwards,  ller  general 
appearance  suggested,  in  a  remote  way,  a  colossal  and 
bad-tempered  pouter  jiigeon — a  likeness  absurdly  empha- 
sized sometimes  by  the  redness  of  her  eyes. 

When  Myron  Holder  crossed  the  threshold  with  the 
quilting-frames,  a  scene  characteristic  of  the  place  greeted 
her.  Mrs.  Deans  stood  in  the  foreground,  holding  the 
floor;  her  husband  listened  to  her  eloquence,  blinking 
appreciatively  if  somewhat  apprehensively.  You  never 
kijew — to  use  one  of  her  own  expressions — when  you  "  had 
Mrs.  Deans,  and  when  you  hadn't."  She  was  apt  to  deflect 
suddenly  from  the  chase  she  was  engaged  in,  and  start 
full  cry  after  another's  shortcomings.  More  than  once 
Henry  Deans,  enjoying  himself  hugely  while  his  wife 
browbeat  the  bound  girls,  had  his  joy  turned  to  mourning 
by  suddenly  discovering  that  the  peroration  of  his  wife's 
address  had  for  its  insjnration  his  own  shortcomings. 

His  wife  was,  as  he  confided  to  Gamaliel,  "onsartain";  it 
was  a  perilous  joy  to  listen  to  her,  and,  therefore,  perhaps, 
the  more  exhilarating. 

The  bound  girl — a  slight,  tow-headed  child  with  high, 
unequal  shoulders,  and  arms,  and  wrists,  developed  by  her 
life  of  toil  into  absurd  disproportion  to  her  body — stood 
by  the  stove,  listening  with  a  dazed  look  in  her  weary 
eyes.     She  had  broken  a  seven-cent  lamp-glass. 


.    ^i-on  l>..t  aside  the  ?«sk,.f  ,.t 

"o  .onless  by  the  ie,  and^M  J  n       '"''  «^'^'  ^'""  ^'ood 
''"Stand  was  shifting    '°f.7\.0«"ns  «''""  talked;  her 

oondemnation,  „„d  oritieisms  wit  ,'"''  '"  P°"'*'  ""d  ''"r 
0  bo  altogether  pleasant,  wTerL.'r?'"^  '"^  ^'^''^I'i"^ 
Learers,   Mrs.   Deans'    attllf "'  '  *°  "'«  «''''«f  of  her 

'"•"val  of  the  ragman,  wtrir  """    '''^'^''«*«<^   ^^      e 
'"g''  with  coarse!  b„  W  '  1'  "?^'  ^""""g  van,  piled 
-s-'^od  her  aunbonnef  fnd  w    ;'  "'"'"''^-     Mrs.  De  ns 
J";n  of  sixty  or  so,  th  'n  "'  d  f  °"*  *"  '"'"'•     »«  ^a^  a 
Mrs.  Deans  ealled,  "  An  Je'to  1h  '"""   '   "'""'  ^'^  ''^«' 
'"gh  npon  the  seat  of  his  odf,' "''""'''•"   Perched 
-^■Posod  to  all  the  variabi  „esf;J    """'"  '^'•«'  ^».  ''e  ^»' 
-'n*me  and  rain  i„  good  part      T'''"'  ""' ''«  'oo^ 
^orso,  save  that  he  was  toned^o'T     'T'-^  "*««  "« 

Ho  went  regular  rounds  thrllf,"'  '""'°«''°y  *'»t- 
«g«.and  scrap-iron.     His  caS  ;       """"''''  ^''*^"»S 
c  "ssic  systcn  of  barter.      tS  J  ^  '"^"'a'  of  the  oil 
filled  with  an  array  of  n,n,      I         ""'"  °^  '"^  van  was 
;-e;   a  drawer  at  tfe  t  H  Id'"'^  "'"''  "*"  ^"^'^  ^^  «» 
>-""ocl  knives  and  forks, Id     "T'"""  "=°««'y'  "orn- 
t  mers  „sed.     With  thes   wares  L^""?'/'""^ ''«  '»«  <=•■«- 
«  d  .ron.     Many  a  r.honsand  „       ■,  ^'"''  ^•""  *'>«  ■'•''gs  and 
h-  oW  black  horse  colTS  '"""'^  "'  ^'"=''  ""^  J>o  and 

"-}-™^^^^^^^^^^  Of  a  ba.  .  rags 

'^""M  say;  then  weighl^  i^l    J,^"  "''%Pound,"  he 

andahaIf,"hewo„ld  aZie  w:.''  '"''''""'  "'  *h»'y 
"s  own  mistake.     Then  T  *''  ""  "''•  "*  surprise  at 

*-  *ii«"Uy  bestowed  up'o''^.^'  '"^'  *''«  ""^  '^  «ld 
^a=  always  one-sided,  buTnJrfS^^^f  ""  ^''"^   ''»  '-^ 


■/ 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


33 


Mrs.  Deans  always  liad  rags  for  him,  and  invariably 
bought  pie-plates. 

"Who  is  that?"  said  he  to  Mrs.  Deans,  after  the  chaffer- 
ing process  was  over,  and  she  stood,  pie-plates  in  hand, 
watching  him  put  the  wooden  peg  througli  the  staple  to 
keep  the  hasp  tight.  He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Myron 
Holder. 

"That — oh,  Jed  Holder's  Myron," returned  Mrs.  Deans, 
assuming  the  face  with  which  she  taught  Sunday  school. 

"  'Tis,  eh?    What  do  you  have  her  for?" 

"  I  feel  a  duty  to  have  hev  here,  but  it  goes  ag'in  me, 
Mr.  Long — it  does  that;  but  there,  we  all  have  our  cross 
and  we  must  help  along  as  well  as  we  can.  Are  you  going 
to  call  at  old  Mrs.  Holder's?  She  takes  it  most  terrible 
hard." 

"Yes,  I'll  call  there;  it's  a  lucky  job  for  tlie  girl  she's 
got  such  a  backer  as  you,  Mrs.  Deans.  'Twould  be  a  good 
thing  if  there  was  more  like  you.  It  beats  all  what  wim- 
men  is  coming  to  these  days!     Who's  the  man?" 

"Don't  ask  me — ask /^er;  that's  the  only  place  I  know 
to  find  out;  she's  that  close,  though!  And  stubborn! 
Even  I,  for  all  I've  done  for  her,  and  put  up  with,  don't 
know!  No  more  does  her  grandmother.  But  I'll  find 
out." 

"Well,  well — that's  curious,"  said  the  ragman,  by  thi^ 
time  perched  aloft  again  and  shaking  the  reins  over  the 
high,  lean  haunches  of  his  horse;  "good  day,  Mrs. 
Deans;  you  have  a  fine  place  here." 

"Good  morning.  When'll  you  be  back?  Be  sure  you 
call." 

"I'll  be  round  in  a  couple  of  months  again.  Good 
morning,"  he  replied,  as  his  van  jolted  away. 

"It  seems  to  roe,"  said  he,  soliloquizing,  "that   Mrs. 
Deans  has  washed  more'n  she  can  hang  out!     Jed  Holder's 
8 


* 


^  THE   UNTEUPEJiED  WWD 

homeward  i„  the  evening  ^"^  ^''"°"'  "«  ''«  drove 

Yes,"  said  old  Carrn]?.  « 
scheming  lot."  '     ''^"'^^  «re  a  bad  Jot,  a  bad, 

C^h,  come,  come-  von'n  l^ 

yo-nggirl  one  of  the'se  fine  ijavs  "f  ^^^  T"''""  *"  ^o""* 
man.  nne  days,    retorted  the  astute  ras- 

«  T  .  O 

higWypLed.'  "'toL'?:''"  ^""^^^'^  *e  old  n,an, 

The  ragman  wouid     ftl      ?  '"r"  '"'^«  «  "^OP?" 

the  black  horse  meantime    Lhw',  *'*  '""^^  '"^^'her, 

-t  year's  grass.  througTwhIh  «fe  ."?  /"  """"^  "*  ">; 

the^new  growth  were  pointing  '  ''''"''    ^'' 

-<>  ~;*thVrd"war:K  ':f' "^  """="  '^'•w- 

Mr^CarrolI's  " drop"  ^el     a  gi  "  ^^^  7^^  ^e'.  a>^d 
Mr.  Carroll  came  fn  fi,     i  '    "^  ^^^^^  of  gin. 

declares  she'U  fir^ttTe  -ot"  'n'""-  "^'^-  '^-- 
1 11  warrant,"  the  ragm™  "1  !  J"''  ^'"  P"='^'e  even  her, 
hly  up  over  the  front  Xi       ^'"^  "'  '^^  """"^e"  »>m- 

Trust  her  for  f }inf .  ,., 
catch  a  thief, '"  replied       T  "'  ""  ""'«•    'Set  a  thief  to 

«^«an  lend.,  evidenced  his-ippreciation  of  this 


J/ 


THE   VNTEMPlLRED  WIND 


ds 


p 


fine  wit,  and  dei^arted,  calling  out,  "Evening — good  even- 
ing— you've  got  a  fine,  snug  place  here,  Mr.  Carroll." 

His  homeward  way  led  through  quiet  country  roads, 
and  long  grass-grown  "concessions." 

The  promise  of  spring  made  sweet  the  air,  and  although 
the  night  felt  gray  and  chill,  it  did  not  numb,  as  do 
autumn  nights  of  the  same  temperature. 

The  ragman's  house  stood  on  the  outskirts  of  a  little 
town,  and  was  dwarfed  and  overshadowed  by  the  barn, 
which  occupied  the  main  portion  of  the  lot.  One  little 
corner  of  this  barn  was  devoted  to  the  big  black  horse; 
the  rest  was  given  over  to  rags.  If  the  rags  are  not  sent 
to  the  mills  as  they  are  collected,  they  are  "sorted,"  which 
means  that  buttons,  hooks,  and  eyes  are  cut  off,  and  the 
woollen  separated  from  the  cotton  rags.  The  former  are 
sent  to  the  shoddy  mills;  the  paper  factories  absorb  the 
others. 

The  ragman's  trade  has  its  traditions  and  romances;  and 
the  tales  of  fortunes  found  by  ragpickers  are  beautiful 
truths  to  all  of  their  calling;  so  this  ragpicker,  like  all 
others,  carefully  felt  the  pockets  and  linings  of  the  gar- 
ments that  came  to  him.  During  his  thirty  years  of  rag- 
picking  he  had  found  one  two-dollar  bill,  seven  ten-cent 
pieces,  eighteen  five-cent  bits,  one  pair  of  gloves  and  an 
average  of  one  lead  pencil  a  year — but  he  still  hoped. 

Finding  a  fortune  in  rags,  however,  is  a  little  like  trying 
to  locate  the  pot  of  gold  at  the  rainbow's  foot. 

Myron  Holder  had  heard  plainly  the  ragman's  query  and 
Mrs.  Deans'  reply.  Old  Henry  Deans,  blossoming  forth 
like  a  snail  out  of  its  shell,  as  soon  as  his  wife's  back  was 
turned,  said  with  leering  facetiousness,  "Ah — a  fellow 
askin'  after  you,  Myron,"  and  pointed  his  fist  with  a  look 
that  made  the  blood  spring  to  the  woman's  cheeks  and 
linger  there,  a  painful  blot  as  though  the  face  had  been 


3(> 


i-m   UNTBMPERSD  WWD 


snut  o„.     sjie  bent  over  her  tub  in    •. 

«;'  "nn  her.         T],e  regard  of  1  1       """'  ^"^  '"^"'^  J'«t 

Myron  Holder  lived  amo^;  my  no  :  '"'"/'"  ^°'»«'>  «' 
to  us,  nor  their  c,itici,„s  of  anv  ;  '  ?  °^  '""<=''  """"e"* 
"^e  remembered  that  thej  formed  T'' "'/"'  *•"*"""«' 
»ad   their    verdict  upon   Ww    ^^™"  holder's  world; 

^ith  them  lay  the  pCer  '^f  ";«     """*'  '""'""""h  «« 
pronounced.  ^  "^  miiicting  the  penalty  they 

Mrs.  Deans  bustled  in  ratfli.^  ^        • 
one  was  at  work  and  „nhL  ^  ^^^  P'O'P'ates.     Every 

band  with  a  contemjtuot  ^  Z  '''''  ^'"'""-^  her  h    ! 
betook  herself  to  the'ki S:*?;:^/:-™'  ^"""'P'^^'  «"« 
quiltmg.frames    into   poaitkn  T  '     f  ""'"  S^"'»g  the 
quilts,  which  process  coSd/n  dT"^'''    *°  "««"  her 
red  and  bine  surfaces  wrfX\tS  fj"*''™' 

That   night,    when  Mvron    hIu         ^  '""'  y""' 
thought  for  the  first  time  once  o?f  '''"'    ''°'»'''    «he 

portion  meted  out  to  h';    but  fb  T  "'"'"'""^'y-  "^the 

?eroach."^ '-  ^-  ^»  '^-^^irzzzirz' 

t;>";^trXtSr  '^.  »  ^-  of  beati. 
Myron  Holaer  was  condemned  ,^ ^^Pirituafeing effect, 
and   arrows"  that  a  smtehU    n«     ""'"''*  ""  "'e  "slings 

--n;^    ShearoseintheCLa  niT"'.''  ""^^^  -» 
to  the  sound  of  bitter  words  dirl^      •"■  ^'^'^ ''^^""^^t 

■nahgnity   of  long-suppIS    d   rt     ''*^  '^'  ""«""« 

excuseforexpressi!n.'rhTlked 'im"*  '"*  ^■^*»  «" 
taunts  of  a  vulgar  virago    Z  '  ^*^'  '"bject  to  the 

cub,  Gamaliel,' he  intoLale  r""?  "'  ''^"^  "'^"''k- 
paralysed  Henry  Deans      st     ?  "'"'  ^■''^»  °^  *he  half- 
greeted     by    her    grandmofh    >       ™"^  "*  "'^ht  to  be 
Doubt,      she  deservrarS-buTr'""^    "'''°-''- 
-.ht  have  been  different,  ^^^  ZaS'Z:!:^ 


THE   UNTEMPEkED  WIND 


%1 


no  slavish  race  of  clown -trodden  serfs.  She  had  sprung 
from  a  long  line  of  sturdy  English  forbears,  lowly  indeed, 
but  free  and  bold.  It  Avould  scarcely  be  a  matter  for 
wonder  had  Myron  Holder  fought  with  her  back  against 
the  wall,  defied  the  world  she  knew,  utterly — its  narrow 
prejudices,  cramped  conventions,  traditionary  decencies; 
but  she  did  not.  At  this  time  she  neither  rebelled  nor 
struggled — she  endured ;  so  did  Prometheus. 


CHAPTER  V. 


"  Oh,  the  waiting  in  the  watches  of  the  night ! 
In  the  darkness,  desohition,  and  contrition  and  affright ; 
The  awful  hush  that  holds  us  shut  away  from  all  delight ; 
The  ever- weary  memory  that  ever  weary  goes. 
Recounting  ever  over  every  aching  loss  it  knows, 
The  ever- weary  eyelids  gasping  ever  for  repose — 
In  the  dreary,  weary  watches  of  the  night ! " 

"  The  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  dies ; 
All  that  we  wish  to  stay 

Tempts,  and  then  flies. 
What  is  this  world's  delight? 
Lightning  that  mocks  the  night, 

Brief  even  as  bright.  " 

One  day,  shortly  after  the  ragman's  call,  old  Mr.  Car- 
roll came  to  have  a  talk  with  Mr.  Deans.  He  did  this 
often.  It  was  not  that  he  had  any  particular  liking  for 
Henry  Deans  or  his  wife,  but  the  forced  inaction  of  the 
former  left  him  unoccupied  all  day  long,  and  Mr.  Carroll 
dearly  liked  "to  have  his  talk  out"  when  once  he  com- 
menced. As  a  prelude  to  the  talk  proper,  they  discussed 
for  an  hour  or  so  the  affairs  of  the  village,  the  crops  of 


il 


36 


THE    UNTILMPERED  WIND 


tlicir  neighbors,  the  scarcity  of  pasture  and  the  great  num- 
ber of  tramps.  Into  this  part  of  the  conversation  Mrs. 
Deans  entered  heartily.  After  these  matters  were  canvassed 
tlioroughly,  the  men  settled  themselves  more  easily  in  their 
chairs,  and  took  up  tlie  more  serious  business  of  the  hour. 

Now  there  were  only  two  subjects  that  Mr.  Carroll  thor- 
oughly enjoyed  talking  about — i)olitics  and  war;  the  for- 
mer he  regarded  as  the  "  root  of  all  evil,"  the  latter  as  the 
only  means  of  reform.  Mr.  Deans  only  cared  to  discuss 
religion  and  crops. 

Each  talked  in  his  own  strain  about  his  own  hobby, 
without  regard  to  what  his  companion  was  saying. 
While  one  was  speaking  the  other  waited,  absent-eyed, 
for  the  first  jiause  for  breath,  when  he  promptly  took  up 
his  parable  where  he  had  left  off  when  forced  to  pause  for 
breath  himself.  The  one  never  heard  what  the  other  said, 
each  being  too  much  occupied  in  thinking  what  he  should 
say  next  to  bother  about  listening  to  any  one  else.  They 
derived  mucli  of  the  same  mutual  benefit  and  amusement 
from  these  conversations  as  two  dogs  do  when  they  race 
madly  up  and  down  opposite  sides  of  a  fence,  barking  at 
each  other.  Many  learned  arguments,  held  in  high  places, 
are  conducted  upon  these  same  lines. 

The  sunny  afternoon  wore  along.  Mrs.  Deans  had 
yawned  several  times,  yawned  audibly  and  significantly; 
but  her  husband,  in  full  cry  after  the  errors  of  the  Catho- 
lics and  the  bigotry  of  the  Church  of  England,  disregarded 
tho  danger  signal,  and  went  on  his  conversational  way 
rejoicing.  Mr.  Carroll,  winding  his  way  through  the 
intricacies  of  the  bribery  and  corruption  and  scandals  of 
the  last  election,  was  oblivious  of  her  yawns,  their  mean- 
ing, and  even — ungallant  as  it  may  seem — of  her  presence. 

Gamaliel,  coming  in  from  his  plough  to  refill  his  water- 
jug,  looked  slyly  through  the  door  at  the  trio. 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


39 


l\ 


"She's  putting  her  cars  back,"  said  lie  to  liiinsclf,  with 
pleasurable  anticipation  of  a  row,  as  he  looked  at  his 
mother.  lie  waited  a  few  moments  in  expectation  of  a 
crisis,  but  at  the  instant  when  his  hopes  were  highest  an 
interruption  occurred  in  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Wilson. 

Mr.  Carroll  loathed  Mrs.  Wilson,  a  well-fed -looking  hut 
lugubrious  woman,  chronically  aggrieved.  From  her  own 
account,  she  had  inherited  and  endured  "all  the  ills  tlio 
flesh  is  heir  to,"  but  nevertlieless  she  was  plump  and  com- 
fortable-h)oking.  Her  dark  eyes  were  bright,  her  red 
cheeks  rosy,  her  nose  a  pug;  her  lips  showed  red  against 
the  whiteness  of  her  false  teeth — when  the  teeth  were  in 
her  lips  pouted,  when  the  teeth  were  out  her  lips  pursed. 

Mrs.  Wilson  was  somewhat  perilously  given  over  to  vani- 
ties, and  had  fringe  on  her  black  merino  dress  and  a 
white  muslin  rose  in  her  black  bonnet.  She  had  her  knit- 
ting with  her,  an  index  of  her  intention  to  stay  for  tea, 
and  an  encouragement  to  Mrs.  Deans  to  insist  that  she 
should  remain.  Mrs.  Wilson  protested  she  had  had  no 
intention  of  staying,  and  Mrs.  Deans  insisted  that  she 
should  stay.  Mrs.  Wilson's  protestations  continued  all 
the  while  she  was  laying  off  her  bonnet,  and  Mrs.  Deans' 
persuasive  eloquence  flowed  freely;  finally,  with  a  fine 
assumption  of  compulsion,  Mrs.  Wilson  ceased  protesting, 
and  allowed  herself,  knitting  in  hand,  to  be  led  back  to 
the  dining-room. 

By  the  time  the  two  ladies  emerged,  Mr.  Carroll  was 
hobbling  out  of  the  gate  and  Mr.  Deans  was  enjoying  a 
long-deferred  chew.  The  two  women  sat  down  opposile 
each  other  in  rocking-chairs.  Mrs.  Wilson  produced  a 
black  apron,  which  she  donned,  and  then  felt  in  her 
pocket  for  the  goose-quill  she  carried  to  hold  the  end  of 
her  knitting  needle,  stuck  it  in  her  belt,  and  proceeded  to 
turn  the  heel  of  a  carpet- wai'p  sock ;   at  the  same  time  to 


%- 


't 


lila 


If 


40 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


give  Mrs.  Deans  a  full  and  particular  account  of  her 
giulferings  from  erysipelas.  Mrs.  Deans  herself  had  had 
some  experience  with  that  disease,  having  once  seen  a 
woman  in  St.  Ann's  who  was  bald  from  its  effects. 

Mrs.  Wilson's  needles  clicked;  Mrs.  Deans'  waxed  thread 
hummed  as  she  vigorously  sewed  carpet-rags;  a  distant 
thud-thud  told  that  Myron  Holder  was  churning. 

The  sun  began  to  sink.  Suddenly  Mrs.  Wilson  dropped 
her  hands  and  her  knitting  into  her  lap,  and  asked,  with 
an  explosive  abruptness  only  excusable  as  an  indication  of 
the  startling  character  of  the  question : 

"  Say,  Jane — I  want  to  ask  you  something !  lias  Myron 
Holder  named  her  young  one?" 

Mrs.  Doans  struck  one  hand  into  the  other. 

"Well,  it  beats  all!  I  never!  If  you'll  believe  me,  I 
don't  know." 

"  I  just  wondered  whether  she  had  or  not,  but  I  never 
saw  you  to  ask,  or  if  I  saw  you  I  forgot,  and  I  didn't  hear 
tell  of  its  being  named  yet.  Now  what  do  you  suppose, 
Jane,  speaking  confidential  between  ourselves,  and  know- 
ing it'll  go  no  further — if  you  was  asked,  now,  what  would 
you  say  she'd  call  it,  if  'twas  put  to  you?" 

"Well,  Marian,"  replied  Mrs.  Deans,  with  the  air  of  a 
baffled  astrologer,  "since  you  ask  me  plain,  I'll  tell  you 
one  thing — I  can  see  as  far  through  a  ladder  as  most  peo- 
ple, and  if  I  go  falling  it  ain't  through  going  about  with 
my  eyes  shut;  but  all  I  know  about  it  is  one  thing,  and 
that  ain't  two;  whatever  Myron  Holder  calls  the  young  one 
she  won't  call  it  Jed,  for  that  old  Mrs.  Holder  won't  allow 
at  no  rate — for  no  favor.  Not  that  Myron  said  anything 
about  it;  that  ain't  her  way.  She's  close — terrible  close  is 
Myron,  and  deep  beyond  belief.  But  old  Mrs.  Holder  says 
— and  what  she  says  she'll  stick  to,  being  stubborn  and 
fixed  in  her  wotions — she  says,  '  No  naming  of  such  brata 


i 


\ 


( 


TI/E    UNTEMPERED   WIND  41 

after  my  son/    No-not  if  Myron  asks  on  bended  knee, 

Mrs.  Holder  won't  give  in." 
"But  say,  Jane,"  hazarded   Mrs.  Wilson,  as  one  who 

advances  an  improbable  and  wild  suggestion,  "  supposing 

Myron  Holder  don't  ask,   but    just   does    it?      Do  you 
suppose  she'd  dare?" 

"'Tain't  hardly  likely,"  returned  Mrs.  Deans,  looking 
judicial;  "that  would  be  pretty  serious,  even  for  Myron 
Holder.     But  I  don't  know;   she's  bad  clean  through— 
that's  easy  enough  seen;  why  she  makes  the  greatest  time 
over  that  young  one  you  ever  seen.     Why,  Mrs.  Warner 
told  me  that  the  other  Sunday,  when  she  went  to  Holder's 
well  for  a  pail  of  water,  that  the  house  being  very  quiet 
she  went  and  looked  in  the  windows,  knowing  old  Mrs' 
Holder  was  out  to  Disney's  for  milk.     She  couldn't  see 
nothing  in  the  front  room  nor  the  kitchen,  but  in  the  bed- 
room there  she  seen  Myron    Holder  with  the  boy.     The 
boy  was  asleep,  and  she  was  knee  ^ng  by  the  bed,  talkin<r 
away  to  the  sleeping  child  !~'s  good's  praying  to  it,  Mrs'' 
Warner  said." 

"I've  no  patience  with  such  goings  on  as  them,"  said 
Mrs.  Wilson,  clicking  her  needles  agitatedly.  "  I  should 
think  she'd  be  ashamed  to  act  up  like  that,  considering  all 
that's  come  and  gone." 

"Well,  you'd  think  so,"  agreed  Mrs.  Deans,  windin<r  up 
her  ball  of  rags.  "But  there,  Marian!  There's  no^'uso 
talking,  her  kind  don't  care  for  nothing." 

"  Well,  it's  to  be  hoped  she  don't  throw  no  slurs  on  any 
decent  fellow,  like  your  Male  or  my  Homer,"  said  Mrs. 
Wilson,  with  dismal  foreboding  in  her  voice.  "  It  would 
be  just  like  her  to  pick  on  some  fine  name.  But  I  warn 
her  of  one  thing:  slurs  is  something  I  can't  abide  and 
won't  put  up  with." 

"Nor  me,  Marian,  nor  me,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  her  spirit 


4a 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


rising  in  anticipation  of  tlio  imaginary  fray.  "  Let 
Myron  Holder  call  her  brat  Gamaliel,  and  I'll  let  her  know 
for  once,  in  her  life,  that  respectable  people  has  their 
rights.  Just  only  let  her,  once,  and  that's  all.  If  I  don't 
show  her  pretty  prompt  what's  what,  blame  me!" 

"  Well,  'twould  be  a  most  terrible  slur  on  any  fellow, 
that's  all  I  can  say,"  returned  Mrs.  Wilson. 

After  tea  Homer  Wilson  called  for  his  mother  and  drove 
her  away,  her  white  muslin  rose  nodding  above  the  black 
barege  veil  she  tied  across  her  forehead  to  ward  off  neural- 
gia, her  hands  clasping  lovingly  a  bottle  of  liniment  dis- 
tilled from  dried  "smartweed,"  which  Mrs.  Deans  had 
bestowed  upon  her.  Mrs.  Deans  watched  their  departure 
from  the  veranda;  presently  she  voiced  her  reflections 
aloud : 

"  Marian  don't  crack  up  Homer  as  much  as  she  used  to 
do;  guess  that  shoe  pinches  a  bit.  AVell,  served  her 
right!  Nobody  but  a  fool  gives  away  his  clothes  before 
he's  done  with  them!  They  shouldn't  have  been  so  smart 
giving  Homer  the  deed." 

"No,  I  don't  hold  with  doing  that.  Don't  catch  me 
doing  any  such  business,  not  I,"  said  Mr.  Deans'  voice 
from  the  kitchen. 

Mrs.  Deans  jerked  her  shoulders  impatiently,  and  took 
herself  and  her  meditations  out  of  her  husband's  hearing. 
She  was  gone  some  little  time,  having  walked  down  to  the 
pasture  to  look  at  the  lambs.  As  she  entered  the  cook- 
house she  murmured  to  herself,  "  I  can't  make  my  mind 
up  to  it  somehow,  but  she  was  anxious,  was  Marian,  terri- 
ble anxious  about  the  name — Homer  Wilson." 

Homer  Wilson  and  his  mother  drove  homeward.  They 
passed  Myron  Holder  entering  the  gate  of  her  home.  She 
had  taken  off  her  sunbonnet  and  held  it  by  the  strings,  as 
she  fastened  the  gate.     Her  hair,  loosened  and  roughened, 


^ 


I 


,V»:.' 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


43 


^ 


I 


,\*' 


/ 


wa8  massed  about  her  head  in  snch  a  way  as  to  form  a  soft, 
shadowy  background,  from  which  the  pale  oval  of  her  face 
shone  forth  almost  startlingly. 

"  Guess  Mrs.  Deans  is  taking  her  money's  worth  out  of 
Myron  Holder,"  said  Homer  after  they  passed.  "  She  looks 
mighty  tired  out." 

"Oh,  goodness.  Homer,"  said  his  mother,  "don't  take 
up  with  that  girl.  'Tired  out!'  Serve  her  right  if  she  is! 
It's  pure  charity  Jane  Deans'  having  her;  and  as  for  stub- 
bornness and  badness,  Jane  says  she  can't  be  beat.  I 
guess  her  old  grandmother  has  a  tough  time  of  it !  Old 
folks  has  a  poor  chance  when  young  ones  get  the  whip- 
hand.  Give — give — and  when  you've  given  all  you've  got 
you're  no  more  good!  Well,  time's  short  here  any  way, 
and  a  good  thing  it  is!  No  pleasure  after  one  gets  old — 
only  burdens  on  other  people."  Here  Mrs.  Wilson  sniffed 
loudly,  and  ostentatiously  wiped  away  an  imaginary  tear. 

Homer's  face  burned  in  the  dusk;  his  heart  rose  hot 
against  the  reflection  his  mother's  speech  was  meant  to 
cast  upon  him.  But  he  made  no  answer;  he  was  used  to 
such  things;  they  drove  on  without  further  speech.  The 
loose  links  in  the  horses'  traces  jingled;  their  hoof -beats 
sounded  soft  on  the  sandy  road.  They  drew  near  the 
house  before  Mrs.  Wilson  spoke  again;  then  she  said 
briskly:  "Homer,  don't  go  speaking  to  Myron  Holder  if 
you  meet  her;  she's  a  dangerous  girl." 

"She  looks  it,"  said  Homer,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm.. 
"  I  don't  think  I'll  be  hurt  by  passing  a  good  day  with  her, 
though." 

"That's  right — I  might  have  known  as  much.  Get 
mixed  up  with  her  next,  as  if  I  hadn't  had  enough 
trouble,"  whined  his  mother. 

Homer  was  getting  exasperated.  The  knowledge  that 
he  h^d  that  very  morning  passed  Myron  Holder  in  absent- 


% 


!^^"1 
f 


w 


44 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


minded  silence  added  to  the  irritation  of  his  mood.  His 
mother's  persistent  misconstruction  of  his  motives  and 
actions  was  at  times  almost  unbearable.  He  answered  out 
of  pure  perversity:  "She's  the  best  looking  girl  in  the 
village,  by  long  odds;  and  as  for  not  speaking  to  her,  I 
fancy  the  women  do  plenty  of  'passing  by  on  the  other 
side'  business  without  the  men  helping  them.  You  won't 
find  many  men,  I  reckon,  unwilling  to  speak  to  Myron 
Holder." 

A  strange  conviction  of  the  absolute  truth  of  what  he 
was  saying  smote  across  his  mind,  and  suddenly  Myron 
Holder's  pale  face  seemed  to  show  out  of  the  gloom  before 
him,  as  ho  had  seen  it  a  little  while  before  against  the  dark 
background  of  her  hair.  His  mother  almost  groaned  aloud ; 
a  dreadful  thought  flittered  momentarily  through  her  mind, 
but  Homer  was  already  pulling  up  the  hor 

He  helped  her  out  carefully,  and  she  entered  the  house 
absorbed  in  peevish  self-pity. 

Old  Mr.  Wilson  was  ready  to  receive  her  and  eager  to 
hear  the  "news."  When  Homer  finished  attending  to  his 
horses  and  came  into  the  house,  he  found  they  had  already 
retired.  He  heard  the  murmur  of  his  mother's  voice, 
broken  only  by  a  sharp  exclamation  or  a  short  interroga- 
tion from  his  father.  He  blew  out  the  lamp  and  sat  down 
at  the  open  window,  laying  his  head  on  his  hands.  The 
frogs  in  the  pond  were  uttering  their  weird  and  dismal 
note.  No  other  sound  has  a  more  melancholy  echo,  a 
more  desolate  tone.  An  earthy  breath  of  wind  was 
wafted  from  across  the  newly  ploughed  land  near  the 
house.  In  the  sunshine  the  aroma  from  fresh  furrows  is 
sweeter  than  the  breath  of  sweet  grass;  at  night  it  brings 
the  odor  of  the  charnel. 

The  wind  died  down ;  it  was  very  still  and  dark.  The 
dew  fell.     Presently  Homer  Wilson  rose,  and,  still  in  the 


I 


TUL    I'XTKMrEKED   WIND 


45 


) 
I 
3 

,e 
s 


. 


dark,  found  his  way  softly  upstairs.  His  tliick  brown 
hair  was  hidon  with  tlio  night  damps,  hut  even  the  fust 
heavy  dews  of  spring  do  not  leave  long,  glistening,  smart- 
ing furrows  on  the  cheeks — do  not  fall  in  slow- wrung, 
scalding  drops  upon  clinched  hands,  do  not  linger  in  salt 
traces  about  the  lips  they  touch. 

AVhen  Homer  Wilson  avowed  conversion  in  the  little 
Methodist  Churcli,  his  mother  confided  to  Mrs.  Deans  that 
she  was  exceedingly  glad  thereat.  "I  can  let  him  go  to 
the  city  with  an  easier  mind,  now  that  I  know  he's  got 
religion,"  she  said.  Homer  had  gone  to  the  anxious-seat 
the  night  before,  during  the  revival  meeting,  had  been 
prayed  over,  and  sung  over,  and  had  avowed,  in  a  few 
jerky,  hesi^^iting  sentences,  that  "he  felt  better — happier 
— there  is  i  load  off  my  mind — I — "  But  his  testimony 
had  been  interrupted  at  this  point,  greatly  to  his  own 
relief  and  his  mother's  wrath,  by  enthusiastic  Sister 
Warner  beginning  to  sing,  in  a  high,  shrill  treble: 

"  Once  I  was  blind, 
But  now  I  can  sec  ; 
The  Light  of  the  World  is  Jesus.  " 

Homer  retired  from  the  meeting  feeling  a  little  dazed. 
He  knew  he  had  done  what  was  expected  of  him,  and 
believed  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do,  but  was  a  bit  con- 
fused as  to  the  impulse  which  had  prompted  him  to  take 
the  step. 

The  next  morning  he  started  for  the  commercial  college, 
where  he  was  about  to  take  a  course.  He  was  alert  to  the 
possibilities  of  life,  and  was  clear-headed  enough  to  see 
that  without  education  his  chances  were  nil. 

He  had  gone,  winter  after  winter,  to  the  village  school, 
and  had  a  wide  reputation  among  the  villagers  as  a  mathe- 
matician. 


*■ 

s 


'¥:■ 


! 


!  1      I 
1   .      ! 


46 


THE    UNTEMPEKED   WIND 


"ItV  pretty  hard  to  fool  Uomer  Wilson  on  iiggcrs,"  was 
the  general  verdict. 

lie  was  too  progressive  to  dream  of  spending  his  life  in 
that  little  hamlet,  so  he  saved  all  his  earnings,  and  at  last 
had  enough  to  cover  the  low  expenses  of  a  two-year 
course  at  the  business  college — an  institution  which, 
among  its  numerous  advantages,  promised  "  to  secure  good 
situations  for  such  of  the  students  as  shall  obtain  our 
diploma." 

When  Homer  Wilson  started  from  the  village,  he  was  a 
good  specimen  of  the  country  Hercules;  tall,  sinev^y,  reso- 
lute, with  unflinching  will  and  bulldog  courage.  His 
conversion,  if  it  had  not  sprung  from  his  inmost  soul  or 
stirred  the  deepest  depths  of  his  heart,  had  at  least  awak- 
ened and  strengthened  his  better  resolutions;  his  mind 
was  eager  10  receive  the  knowledge  that  he  knew  meant 
power.      His  hojies  were  high,   his    heart   and   temper 


generous. 


He  met  Ihr  shortly  after  he  commenced  his  course. 
Her  brother  was  attending  the  college  and  took  Homer  to 
his  home  one  night.  Homer  thought  her  perfection,  for 
his  standard  of  conqmrison  was  not  high.  She  had  fluffy 
yellow  hair,  and  pretty  eyes,  and  pretty  ways,  and  pretty 
speeches  galore.  She  was  winning  and  cordial,  and  he 
thought  her  absurd  questions  about  country  ways  and 
country  doings  very  entertaining.  She  was  bright  and 
quick  and  quite  charmed  this  keen  young  man,  wlio, 
for  all  his  shrewdness,  proved  an  easy  prey  to  these  trivial 
acts  which  girls  of  her  caste  exercise  so  unsparingly. 
He  confided  to  her  all  his  ambitions,  and  she  listened 
eagerly. 

Perhaps  he  gave  her  a  rather  too  glowing  account  of  the 
farm  at  hoi'o.  The  peaches  and  grapes  were,  perhaps, 
hardly  so  pi   itiful,  and  certainly  were  not  so  easily  ob- 


\\ 


\ 


\ 


I 


m^jtawMMw  w  «wi"  **^iu 


.1 


Tim   UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


47 


al 


tained.  The  harvests  were,  perliaps,  not  quite  so  ^olden, 
the  garden  perliaps  not  so  lovely,  as  he  depicted  it,  nor 
his  father  so  admirable,  nor  his  mother  so  benevolently 
kind  to  everybody.  But  he  had  left  home  for  the  lirst 
time,  and,  after  all,  despite  his  ambitions,  his  heart  was 
yet  in  the  country,  with  the  fields,  the  sun,  the  birds  and 
the  trees. 

Under  these  circumstances  a  man  is  prone  to  forget  the 
tedious  process  of  planting  and  nursing  and  cultivating 
the  peach  trees  until  they  are  fit  for  fruiting — to  overlook 
the  ploughing  and  sowing  and  harrowing,  and  the  long  days 
of  toil  before  the  fields  "whiten  to  the  harvest,"  and  to 
think  and  speak  of  both  fruit  and  grain  as  springing,  with 
all  the  beauty  of  spontaneity,  from  the  gracious  IVIother 
Earth.  And  his  listener,  if  she  be  a  selfish,  shallow  crea- 
ture, unthinking  and  unheeding,  is  prone  to  think  only  of 
results,  and  not  at  all  of  the  toil  they  represent. 

So  life  slipped  along  with  Homer  Wilson,  studying  and 
loving  and  writing  home.  Then  came  a  summer  day 
when  he  took  Her  for  a  day's  trip  to  his  home  in  James- 
town. Ilis  mother  had  outdone  herself  preparing  country 
dainties.  It  was  the  time  of  strawberries,  and  there  were 
strawberries  and  cream,  and  strawberry  shortcake,  and 
crullers,  and  pies,  and  boiled  ham,  and  the  sun  was  shining, 
and  t^he  fluttered  about,  genuinely  pleased  with  many 
things  and  affecting  to  be  delighted  by  everything. 

Old  Mr.  Wilson  had  been  at  his  best.  Mrs.  Wilson  was 
urbane  in  a  new  dress,  and  i Tomer  strode  about,  showing 
Har  the  farm,  erect  and  hap^nly  excited.  It  was  the 
halcyon  day  of  his  life.  In  the  evening  there  was  the  trip 
back  to  the  city,  Homer  taking  care  of  the  basket  of  straw- 
berries his  mother  had  l,?stowed  upon  Ihr. 

That  night  she  promised  to  nuu'ry  him.  lie  wrote  to 
his  people,  and  his  mother  returned  a  somewhat  uuinten- 


48 


THE    VNTEMPERED  WIND 


tionally  lugubrious  epistle,  conveying  their  good  wishes 
jind  consent. 

Week^  and  months  sped,  and  Homer  had  never  been 
home  since  that  day.  His  old  people  did  not  take  that 
amiss,  for  travelling,  as  they  knew,  cost  money. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  his  course  was  completed, 
the  coveted  diploma  bestowed  upon  him,  and  a  situation 
secured  for  him  as  bookkeeper  in  a  lumber-yard,  at  thirty- 
five  dollars  a  month.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  go  home 
for  a  day  or  two  before  starting  work.  He  reached  the 
village  elate — fortune  seemed  within  his  grasp. 

His  father  was  surly  and  harassed-looking;  his  mother's 
face  looked  older  and  with  genuine  lines  of  trouble  about 
the  lips,  far  more  significant  than  the  peevish  wrinkles 
of  self-pity  that  creased  her  brow. 

He  soon  learned  the  cause  of  these  things.  The 
mortgage,  which  had  always  seemed  as  much  a  matter  of 
course  to  him  as  the  taxes  or  the  road-work,  wa's  about  to 
be  foreclosed.  The  man  who  had  lent  them  the  money 
would  not  renew  it;  he  hinted  that  he  feared  for  his 
interest,  as  it  seemed  there  was  no  young  man  to  take  hold 
of  the  place,  and  in  the  event  of  the  property  deteriorat- 
ing he  feared  for  his  principal. 

The  old  people  before  this  dilemma  seemed  numbed. 
They  could  think  of  no  expedient,  and  were  apparently 
incapable  of  deciding  what  course  to  pursue. 

Homer  listened  to  it  all  in  sick  wonder  tliat  he  had  not 
been  told,  rejoicing  inwardly  that  he  had  cost  them  nothing 
at  least  for  two  years  back,  though  he  also  realized  with 
bitterness  that  he  had  helped  them  none.  He  went  to  his 
old  room  that  night  to  fight  a  hard  battle  with  himself, 
and  to  conquer — to  give  up  his  ambitions,  which,  humble 
as  they  seem,  were  yet  great  to  him;  to  relinquish  the  joy 
of  seeing  Her  daily ;  to  return  to  the  old,  hopeless  struggle 


^1 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


49 


of  striving  to  make  ends  meet,  to  bend  his  energies  to  the 
circumscribed  field  of  making  the  most  of  the  few  acres  of 
the  old  farm;  to  come  back  and  be  called  a  failure  by  his 
friends ;  to  have  to  wait  a  long,  long  time  before  he  could 
call  Her  "wife."  But  while  that  last  idea  held  the 
bitterest  thought  of  all,  in  it  also  lay  the  kernel  of  the 
hope  which  was  to  keep  his  heart  alive.  He  felt  he  had  a 
sure  and  certain  hope  of  a  happy  future,  no  matter  how 
long  deferred,  and  he  remembered,  with  a  pang  of  pity, 
that  his  father  and  mother  had  only  a  past. 

His  brothers  and  sisters  were  all  married  long  since,  and 
each  had  struggle  enough  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door. 
No  help  from  any  one  but  himself  could  relieve  his  old 
people. 

The  dawn  found  him  resolved.  He  told  his  father  and 
mother  at  the  breakfast- table.  They  were  both  delighted, 
but  did  not  know  very  well  how  to  express  it.  To  a 
stranger's  mind  there  might  have  been  some  doubt  as  to 
whether  they  appreciated  the  sacrifice  or  not.  They  did 
not  in  full.  No  one  save,  perhaps,  a  woman  who  loved 
him  could  have  known  the  magnitude  of  his  renunciation. 

His  father  and  he  went  that  day  to  see  the  old  man  who 
held  the  mortgage.  He  was  a  shrewd  old  miser,  and  was 
fain  to  secure  himself  in  every  way  against  anxiety  and 
loss.  He  insisted  that  the  new  mortgage  should  be  made 
out  in  Homer's  name.  He  wanted  this  open -browed, 
strong,  resolute  young  man  for  his  debtor,  and  not  the 
vacillating  old  man,  who  looked  as  if  no  responsibility 
would  trouble  him  long.  So  the  farm  was  transferred  to 
Homer's  name,  and  the  mortgage  also. 

Homer  resumed  his  old  life  unfalteringly.  He  wrote 
and  told  Her  all  about  his  change  of  plans,  and  she  replied 
to  his  letters  regularly.  Her  letters  were  not  very  satisfy- 
ing ;  women  of  her  fibre  are  not  usually  very  fascinating  on 


I 


50 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


paper.  So  Homer  felt  trebly  the  sacrifice  he  was  making, 
for  he  attributed  none  of  his  sense  of  loss  to  the  lack 
of  real  feeling  in  her  letters.  On  the  contrary,  he 
thought  those  letters,  with  their  stilted  beginning  and 
spidery  writing,  the  sweetest  of  all  epistles;  and  thought 
to  himself  how  altogether  lovely  she  was,  when  even  such 
letters  as  these  left  him  unsatisfied  and  with  heart-hunger 
nnappeased. 

Homer  was  not  one  to  put  his  hand  to  the  plough  and 
then  draw  back.  He  threw  into  his  work  all  the  energy 
of  his  resolute  will,  and  backed  it  by  the  severest  physical 
toil  he  was  capable  of.  It  was  up-hill  and  disheartening, 
work,  but  he  toiled  on.  He  had  disappointments  enough 
and  to  spare,  but  he  wrote  them  all  down  to  Ihr^  and  for- 
got them  when  he  read  that  she  was  "so  sorry." 

He  had  progressive  ideas  which  sometimes  worried  him 
sorely,  for  it  was  trying  to  see  others  availing  themselves 
of  modern  appliances  for  cultivating,  etc.,  while  Homer 
felt  bound  to  struggle  on  with  the  old  implements  his 
father  possessed,  which  called  for  double  the  expenditure 
of  labor  and  time,  and  even  then  did  not  yield  satisfac- 
tory results. 

In  the  spring,  too,  it  took  the  heart  out  of  him  to  walk 
the  rows  of  his  peach  orchard  and  find  a  third  of  the  trees 
killed,  girdled  by  the  teeth  of  the  field-mice.  Homer's 
heart  almost  failed  him  when  he  discovered  this  last  mis- 
hap, for  he  was  oppressed  by  the  knowledge  that  he  could 
have  prevented  it.  It  was  true  that  he  could  not  afford 
the  expensive  shields  of  metal  for  his  trees  that  some  of 
his  neighbors  had,  but  if,  immediately  after  that  lieavy 
snowstorm  of  last  winter,  he  had  gone  out  and  tramped 
the  snow  tightly  round  each  tree,  then  they  would  not 
have  been  girdled ;  for  the  snow,  if  left  undisturbed,  never 
clings  close  to  a  peach   tree;    there   is  always  a  space 


THE   UNTEMPEl^ED  WIND 


SI 


between,  and  tlic  mice  creep  round  and  round  the  trc^  in 
this  space,  gnawing  it  to  the  height  of  the  snow.  Tlie 
peach  trees  next  the  fence,  where  the  snow  had  drifted, 
were  girdled  completely  up  to  a  height  of  three  or  four 
feet. 

Homer  had  visited  Uer  in  the  winter.  The  week  after 
the  heavy  snowstorm  had  been  spent  with  her.  His 
mother  reminded  him  of  this,  and  he  flung  out  of  the 
house  angrily.  He  was  fairly  sick  over  the  loss  of  his 
trees,  and  to  have  anything  cold  said  about  Her  was  too 
much.  He  wrote  Her  all  about  it;  perhaps  in  his  des- 
perate longing  for  sympathy,  loving  sympathy  and  com- 
prehension, he  depicted  the  disaster  as  even  more  serious 
than  it  really  was. 

He  waited  for  her  letter  eagerly.  It  came.  Her  frivo- 
lous, mercenary  soul  had  taken  fright.  She  sheltered 
herself  behind  the  old  excuse  for  disloyalty — worn  thread- 
bare by  women  of  all  stations.  She  wrote  that  she  felt  she 
"did  not  love  him  as  she  should  if  she  was  to  be  his  wife." 

He  had  sent  the  little  Home-boy  to  the  Post-Office  for 
the  letter;  he  brought  it  to  the  field  where  Homer  was 
planting  out  tomato-plants.  Homer  Wilson  read  his 
letter  twice  or  thrice,  put  it  carefully  in  its  envelope,  and 
then  safely  in  his  pocket.  He  went  on  with  his  task— ^ 
slowly — slowly,  though,  with  none  of  the  tremulous  haste 
with  which  he  had  been  exhausting  himself  for  months. 
He  packed  the  roots  with  soil;  it  was  some  relief,  the  hard, 
resistent  pressure  of  the  earth;  there  was  something  left 
to  battle  against,  if  nothing  left  to  fight  for.  So  he  con- 
tinued his  row,  feeling  a  fierce  wrath  if  one  of  the  shaky 
little  plants  would  not  stand  straight,  and  hushing  the 
Home-boy's  chatter  with  a  terrible,  pale  look. 

He  completed  his  task,  and  went  about  his  other  work 
in  an  atmosphere  of  enforced  calm  that  was  torture.     By 


I  . 


sa 


THE    UN  TEMPER  ED  WIND 


some  chance  none  of  his  tasks  that  day  called  for  any  out- 
put of  pliysical  strength.  It  was  a  day  of  small  things, 
trivial  tasks  which  maddened  him  by  their  helpless  need 
for  patience,  not  strength. 

But  the  weariest  hours  pass,  and  night  fell  over  the  vil- 
lage as  a  veil.  Then  he  wrote  to  Her  a  few  straightfor- 
ward, manly  lines,  setting  her  free;  telling  her  she  had 
acted  rightly  if  she  did  not  love  him.  Then  he  lay  down 
for  another  night  of  poignant  thought.  He  recalled  Her 
visit  to  the  farm,  and  remembered  how  impatient  he  had 
felt  when  his  mother  maundered  on  about  sending  back 
the  basket  the  strawberries  went  in.  He  had  felt  a  little 
ashamed  of  his  mother's  thrift  just  then. 
•  When  the  morning  came  Homer  was  ready  for  work, 
but  there  had  been  a  distinct  decadence  in  him  during  the 
night  that  was  past.  He  had  no  longer  anything  to  live 
for  but  money;  he  rose  to  search  for  this  only  good  with 
eager,  greedy  eyes.  For  this  poor  countryman  had  come 
of  a  long  race  of  penurious,  grasping  men  and  women, 
and  that  mercenary  craving  for  money  and  land  had  been 
latent  in  his  nature  since  his  birth.  When  he  went  to  the 
business  college  it  stirred  within  him  vaguely,  and  might 
then  have  developed,  but  better  ambitions  ousted  it.  But 
these  aspirations  were  gone,  and  in  their  place  flourished 
— grown  to  its  full  height  in  a  single  night — the  Upas 
Tree  of  Greed. 

He  told  his  people  next  day.  His  mother  promptly  said, 
"I  knowed  how  it  would  be!  A  big-feeling,  handless 
creature,  idle  and  good  for  nothing!  With  her  airified 
ways  and  her  notions;  I  told  you  so  all  along.  Homer,"  etc., 
etc.  But  Homer,  ere  even  the  second  word  was  spoken, 
was  out  of  the  house  and  striding  along  with  black  brows 
to  hi3  tomatoes.  The  row  he  had  planted  the  day  before 
looked  limp ;  by  night  they  were  yellow — withered — dead. 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


53 


In  replanting  them  he  found  each  stalk  hroken  clean  off 
below  the  earth;  he  liad  indulged  his  strength  too  much 
in  packing  the  earth  about  them.  Day  by  day  the  change 
in  him  went  on — gradually,  almost  imperceptibly,  but 
startlingly  apparent,  had  any  one  contrasted  the  Homer  of 
the  present  with  the  man  of  the  past.  It  was  very  pitiful. 
Worst  of  all,  he  was  congoious  himself  of  the  change,  but 
could  not  analyze  it,  so  could  do  nothing  to  arrest  the 
atrophy  of  his  soul. 

He  began  to  prosper  by  fits  and  starts;  later  more 
steadily.  He  had  a  balance  at  the  end  of  the  summers 
now,  and  invested  it  in  better  stock,  new  implements  and 
fine  varieties  of  fruit.  He  hid  his  aching  heart  under  an 
oifensively  blustering  manner,  and  was"  so  morbidly  afraid 
of  any  one  knowing  his  secret  that  he  was  too  carelessly 
gay — too  full  of  pointless  jests.  Often,  after  a  gathering 
of  the  village  young  people,  he  strolled  home  under  the 
stars,  dazed  and  wondering,  his  throat  harsh  with  much 
speech,  his  head  aching  with  tuneless  laughter.  Was  he 
really  the  man  who  had  chattered  on  so  a  few  minutes 
since?  he  asked  himself.  And  the  other  young  people 
said,  among  themselves,  "Homer  Wilson  does  like  to 
show  off  so!" 

It  was  an  anguish  to  him  when  he  saw,  now  and  then, 
a  young  man  leave  the  village,  win  what  he  considered 
success,  and  come  back  smiling,  content,  and  well  dressed, 
for  a  brief  holiday;  then  back  to  the  world  outside  again. 

His  temper  became  irascible.  When  his  horses  were 
refractory  he  was  unmerciful;  but  after  any  outbreak 
against  a  dumb  animal  his  stifled  manhood  rose  against 
this  last,  worst  outrage  against  it.  But  the  horses  did 
not  recall  the  extra  feeding  and  light  work  as  they  did 
the  blow,  and  they  shrank  and  shivered  and  started  ner- 
vously when  he   approached.      He  noted  this,  and  it  cut 


it   1 


Hi 


S4 


THE   UNTEMPEkED   WIND 


liim  to  the  heart,  or  stung  him  into  dull  wrath  against 
them,  as  his  mood  was. 

The  farm  did  better  and  better,  and  well  it  might;  all 
the  honest  and  generous  part  of  a  man's  nature  was  being 
sunk  in  it.  He  began  to  pay  the  principal  of  the  loan  in 
instalments;  at  last  he  had  the  farm  clear. 

His  brothers  and  sisters  mirmured  against  him.  Homer 
had  stolen  their  birthright,  ihey  whispered;  he  had  got 
hold  of  the  farm  just  when  the  hard  times  were  past;  he 
had  wheedled  the  old  people  into  giving  it  all  to  him,  they 
said,  and  they  each  and  every  one  had  worked  as  hard  as 
he  had,  and  besides  he  had  all  his  own  way,  while  they 
had  had  to  work  under  the  old  man's  orders. 

So  tilt  boys  came  home  with  their  families,  and  paid 
long  visits  and  impressed  upon  the  old  man  how  Homer 
had  "bested  him."  And  the  girls  returned  with  their 
children,  and  condoled  with  their  mother.  They  de- 
parted, leaving  the  old  man  morose,  irritable  and  repin- 
ing, the  old  woman  in  tearful  self-pity;  and  Homer  saw 
it  all  and  smiled  grimly,  but  said  no  word. 

So  the  old  people  saw  grudgingly  his  hard-won  success, 
although  they  shared  it  fully,  and  spoke  of  their  other 
children  always  with  the  prefix  "poor,"  as  if  contrasting 
Homer's  prosperous  and  happy  lot  with  theirs. 

He  had,  after  all,  a  grim  sense  of  humor,  and  this 
Jacob-like  light  in  which  his  family  viewed  him  filled  him 
with  sneering  mirth.  Verily  they  were  a  miserable  tribe 
of  Esaus.  But  the  mirth  died  out  at  last,  leaving  a  resid- 
uum of  rage  against  his  kin,  who  so  persistently  mis- 
judged him,  and  one  bitter  night  he  lay  and  cursed  the 
resolution  which  had  brought  him  back  to  rescue  his  old 
people  from  the  slough  of  despond. 

With  the  acknowledgment  of  this  regret,  th^  disinte- 
gration of  his  soul  would  seem  to  be  complete. 


■Ml 


THE    UNTEMPEKED   WIND 


55 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"And  olj,  the  carven  nioutlj,  with  all  its  great 

Intensity  of  longing  frozen  fast 
In  such  a  smile  as  well  may  designate 

The  slowly  murdered  hearf,  Wv  \  to  the  last, 
Conceals  each  newer  wound,  and  back  at  fate  ' 
Throbs  Love's  eternal  lie  :— 'Lo,  I  can  wait !'" 


"  And  all  that  now  is  left  me,  is  to  bear. 


>» 


That  night  in  the  darkness,  Homer  Wilson's  lip  ci^^ud 
as  he  thought  of  his  mother's  too  ready  fears  for  him, 
nor  could  he  refrain  a  sneer  at  the  idea  of  Mrs.  Deans' 
disinterested  benevolence.  But  after  that,  he  set  himself 
to  slumber,  but  in  vain.     Sleep,  that 

"  Comfortable  bird, 
That  broodeth  o'er  the  troubled  sea  of  the  mind 
Till  it  is  hush'd  and  smooth,  " 

would  not  bestow  its  benison  upon  his  tired  brain  and 
weary  heart,  for  he  was  haunted  by  the  memory  of  Myron 
Holder's  hopeless  face. 

^  It  had  been,  these  past  years,  no  unusual  thing  for  this 
poor  countryman  to  lie  the  long  nights  through,  tortured 
by  the  vision  of  a  woman's  face:   but  it  had  ever  been  a 
fair,  iiretty,  laughing  face  that  had  thus  enthralled  him 
within  the  boun:sof  jiainful  bought;  a  face  that  by  its 
brightness  cast  a  shadow   upon   every  other  vision    that 
strove  to  tempt  him  to  forget;'  a  face  he  had  worshipped, 
and  thought  on  tenderly,  as  his  own;  a  face  he  hadstriven 
to  imagine  old;   a  face  he  had  even  dared   to  think  of, 
dead,  and  always— always  as  his  own  precious  possession.  ' 
But  this  night  his  reverie  was  no  selfish  one  of  bygone 
bliss,  or  present  pain,  or  future  hopelessness  j  it  was  wholly 


If  1^ 


56 


THE    UNTEMPERKD   WIND 


of  a  woman's  palo  face,  carven  cameo-liko  against  a  night 
of  hair,  and  exceeding  sorrowful.  Ho  recalled  Myron 
Holder  as  she  had  been,  a  plump  and  pretty  girl;  one 
whom  all  the  boys  in  Jamestown  had  liked,  but  who  had 
been  kept  rigidly  away  from  all  the  village  gatherings  by 
her  grandmother.  Ho  recalled  the  cadence  of  her  voice, 
Hoftened  always  and  made  richer  than  the  strident  James- 
town voice  by  the  English  accent  she  hnd  inhorited.  Ho 
remembered  having  heard  her  singij.j,  ,^...  he  drove 

past  the  little  hop-clad  cottage;  as  he  thought  of  it,  the 
words  came  back  to  him  in  part ; 

"  Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie. 

•  •  •  t  t 

Merrily,  irerrily,  shall  I  live  now 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough.  " 

He  recollected  how  a  rippling  laugh  prolonged  the  song. 
He  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  that  day;  she  was  standing 
beneath  a  cherry  tree — her  upstretched  arms  held  a 
blossomed  bough,  and  she  gave  it  little  jerks  in  time  to 
her  singing — the  white  petals  of  the  cherry  blooms  show- 
ered down  upon  her  hair  in  fragrant  snow.  Her  grand-" 
mother  called  her  in — scolding  her  as  an  "  idle  maid" ; 
Myron  had  fled  into  the  house  still  laughing,  and  with 
the  cherry  blooms  clinging  to  her  dark  hair;  and  as  Homer 
drove  on,  he  thought  what  a  light-hearted  girl  she  was. 
That  was  in  the  first  year  of  his  sacrifice — now  he  caught 
his  breath  as  he  mentally  compared  the  girl  beneath  the 
cherry  tree  finishing  her  song  with  thrills  of  laughter 
with  the  woman  standing  mute  in  the  moonlight  as  he 
h"«d  so  late  beheld  her. 

How  utterly  incongruous  it  seemed  to  think  of  Myron 
Holder  now  in  connection  with  that  heart-whole  girl. 


1 


\ 


1 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


57 


How  much  she  had  lost!  That  day  when  ho  heard  her 
laughter  and  her  singing,  ho  had  compared  Myron  for  a 
moment  to //t'/-, — now,  alas!  she  wtw  more  like.him.  This 
set  him  off  into  another  tra.a  of  thought:  How  much  he 
too  had  lost!  Ho  began  to  wonder  dimly  if  he  had  been 
guilty  of  any  cowardice.  A  phrase  of  Jed  Holder's  came 
back  to  him;  he  was  full  of  trite  saws,  that  little  English 
broom-maker,  and  when  any  one  lost  their  courage  before 
misfortune,  he  used  to  say  they  "let  their  bone  go  with 
the  dog."  Had  not  he — Homer — let  slip  some  of  his 
self-respect  before  the  loss  of  his  love?  He  hazily  per- 
ceived the  difference  between  self-respect  and  self-seeking, 
but  he  could  not  condemn  himself  just  yet;  he  began  to 
dissuade  himself  from  this  dissatisfaction  with  himself;  ho 
recounted  his  achievements — the  paying  off  the  mort- 
gage— restocking  the  farm — planting  tlie  new  orchard — 
and  reshingling  the  barn — sinking  the  cistern — his  suc- 
cessful experiments — his  prudential  management — his 
economy;  he  marshalled  all  these  arguments  against  the 
feeble  voice  that  strove  to  speak  of  a  narrowed  mind,  a 
hardened  heart,  a  bitter  spirit,  and  for  the  nonce  stilled 
it,  only  stilled  it,  however;  happily  for  Homer  Wilson,  it 
was  not  yet  stifled  utterly. 

It  was  pitiable,  but  natural  in  one  so  generous  as  in 
reality  Homer  was,  that  he  should  overlook  completely  his 
real  claims  to  credit:  his  patience  with  his  whining 
mother,  his  generosity  to  bin  father,  his  tolerance  of  his 
ungrateful  brothers  and  sisters.  He  attained  a  quasi- 
self -content  after  a  time,  but  still  tossed  restlessly.  At 
last  he  could  endure  it  no  longer;  he  sprang  up,  dressed, 
and  going  to  his  window,  drew  aside  the  curtain  and 
looked  forth  toward  the  village.  The  dusk  of  night  had 
given  way  to  the  cold  darkness  of  the  hour  before  dawn ; 
as  he  looked,  a  dull  yellow  light  illumined  the  panes  of  one 


i 


■it    'f 


ir 


-.:y 


58 


THE    UN  TEMPER  ED   WIND 


low  window,  then  it  faded  out  to  reappear  outside  the 
house;  it  went  (for  at  tliat  distance  its  feeble  glow  did 
not  reveal  the  hand  that  bore  it) — it  went  waveringl}' along 
some  liundred  yards,  then  was  lowered,  and  vanished. 
There  was  a  space  of  darkness,  then  the  light  was 
raised,  and  proceeded  back  to  the  house;  it  vanished 
round  the  corner,  gleamed  a  moment  from  tlie  window, 
and  again  journeyed  forth  in  the  dusk,  again  was  lowered 
— again  lost  to  sight — again  its  feeble  gleam  traced  its 
pathway  toward  the  dwelling. 

Homer  Wilson  knew  by  the  location  what  house  sent 
forth  this  wandering  light,  and  following  a  swift  impulse, 
ran  downstairs,  pulled  on  an  old  pair  of  soft  shoes,  let 
himself  out  quietly,  and  sped  along  the  highway  to  the 
village. 

The  streets  were  silent,  the  dwellings  dark,  Jamestown 
still  slumbered.  As  he  reached  the  house  where  the  light 
was,  he  entered  the  garden  through  a  gap  in  the  dilapid- 
ated fence,  walked  along  in  the  darkest  shadow  until  he 
came  to  the  corner  at  the  point  where  the  light's  journey- 
ings  ceased,  and  stood  there  hidden  by  an  overgrown  bush 
of  privet;  and  then  \e  saw  the  light  come  forth:  it  was  a 
queer  old  lantern  Myron  Holder  carried,  one,  indeed, 
brought  from  England.  It  had  lighted  her  mother's 
happy  footsteps  along  Kentish  lanes;  but  how  differently 
that  long  dead  Myron  had  sped !  "  Merry  heart  makes 
light  foot,"  her  husband  used  to  say;  alas,  that  their 
child  should  lack  that  happy  impetus !  Myron  advanced 
slowly,  unsteadily  almost — the  four  little  panes  of  the 
lantern  lighted  dimly  by  the  end  of  a  tallow  candle.  She 
carried  in  her  other  hand  a  large  pail. 

Homer  could  not  understand  her  errand,  creeping  forth 
thus  in  the  sleeping  night.  She  came  nearer  and  nearer, 
and  at  kst  he  understood* 


<«MiHi!!i! 


^ 


YOU  HAVE  COME  !  " 


f 


HmcmH 


n 


TlfE    UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


59 


Sljc  reached  tlio  old  well  (ilio  best  well  in  Juinestowii, 
and  the  deepest) ;  set  down  her  lantern,  and  taking  the 
handle  of  the  windlas?a  began  to  lower  the  bucket;  creak 
— creak  went  the  wooden  windlass;  at  last  there  came  a 
faint  splash,  and  Myron  painfully  rewound  the  ch:iin; 
she  emptied  the  well  bucket  into  her  pail,  lifted  it 
(throwing,  as  Ilomor  thought,  all  her  physical  strength 
into  tl.c  lifting  of  the  heavy  pail,  aiid  seer  »;  .  to  move  by 
the  force  of  licr  will  alone),  and  bcndi\  %  far  over,  i)ro- 
ceeded  to  the  house.  He  traced  her  fouuc.cps  by  the 
lanteni's  gleam  to  the  kitchen  door;  he  heard  the  plash 
of  water,  and  then  once  more  the  weary  i'ght  emerged. 
Myron  Holtler  was  carrying  the  water  for  her  grand- 
mother's washing  before  starting  for  her  mile^s  walk  and 
subsequent  day's  work  at  Deans',  J lomer  Wilson's  famil- 
iarity with  household  alTairs  told  him  this — whispered 
also  something  of  her  motherhood  and  its  demiuuLs  upon 
her,  with  which  this  cruel  toil  so  ill  accorded, 

lie  was  only  a  young  countrymen,  rough  aiul  not  relined 
to  careful  phrase. 

"It's  damnalvie!"  he  said  below  his  breathj  and  grounc! 
his  heel  into  the  sand. 

As  she  approached  the  well  a  second  time,  he  waited  till 
she  set  down  her  lantern  and  pail,  and  then  stepped  forth 
from  the  shadow — a  tall,  strong  figure  in  the  gloom,  utter- 
ing her  name  softly  : 

'"  ^[yron— :Myron  Holder!" 

For  a  lieart-beat  she  stood  rigid,  tlien  her  luuuls  clasj)  : 
an  instant  thus  she  stood,  aiid  then  stretched  forth  licr 
arjua  with  an  infinitude  of  yeariiing  helplessness,  an  agony 
of  tenderness  and  pleading,  a  world  of  relief  in  the 
gesture. 

"  You  have  conu-,"  slu*  said. 

lu  all  his  after-Ufej  Homer  AVilson  never  forgot    th« 


r 


i- 


6o 


tup:  unteiV,'ered  wind 


awful  accent  in  which  these  words — meant- to-be-welcoming 
words  to  the  man  for  whom  she  had  suffered  so  mnch — 
were  uttered.  Horrified  at  the  cruel  mistake  he  had 
caused,  he  stood  for  a  moment  motionless;  the  next,  he 
had  sprung  forward — for  Myron  Holder  fathomed  her  mis- 
take and  fell  without  a  sound. 

Homer  caught  her  before  she  touched  the  ground,  and 
holding  her  in  his  arms,  distraught  with  self-rej)roach, 
strove  to  awaken  her  by  calling  her  name. 

"Myron — Myron,"  he  whispered,  with  all  the  intensity 
of  suppressed  feeling,  "Myron — Myron." 

Her  eyes  unclosed ;  she  did  not  stir,  nor  flush,  nor  speak. 
She  only  looked  at  him  out  of  eyes  which  were  terrible  in 
their  tragic  despair;  eyes  which  seemed  to  accuse  him  of 
his  manhood,  that  rendered  him  akin  to  her  betrayer. 

As  Homer  Wilson  looked  upon  that  pallid  face,  which 
the  wan  light  of  dawn  illumined  palely,  his  soul  was  sud- 
denly smitten  with  self-contempt.  What  was  the  grief 
before  which  he  had  abased  himself?  What  was  it  to 
endure  beside  open  shame?  Life  had  seemed  to  him 
almost  insupportable,  endurable  only  because  he  felt  he 
had  not  merited  the  pain.  What  must  it  be  to  this 
womaji,  knowing  she  had  bought  contempt  at  the  price 
of  her  OAvn  folly? 

He  recalled  with  what  morbid  care  he  had  concealed  the 
pangs  he  felt;  how  he  had  dreaded  lest  any  eye  discern 
his  pain.  What  must  it  be  to  endure,  not  only  sorrow  and 
desertion  and  betrayal,  but  to  endure  it  all  openly;  to 
meet  in  every  eye  a  question,  to  hear  on  every  lip  a  sneer, 
to  know  that  every  heart  held  scorn? 

This  is  the  doom  that  has  driven  hermits  to  the  desert, 
that  has  tempted  women  to — 

"From  tlu!  world's  bitter  wind, 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb.  " 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


6i 


w 


These  thoughts  did  not  formulate  themselves  in  his  bruin; 
they  rushed  upon  him — instantaneous  impressions — and 
vanished,  leaving  ineffable  compassion  in  his  heart,  as  he 
looked  at  the  anguished  face  of  Myron  Holder.  She  was 
weakly  trying  to  steady  herself,  and  at  last  said  in  a  life- 
less voice,  "I  can  stand  alone  now." 

"Forgive  me,  Myron,"  said  Homer,  too  much  moved  to 
feel  any  awkwardness;  "forgive  me — I  frightened  you." 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  did  not  frighten  me;  I  thought 
"     She  paused, 

"  1  ou  thought "    He  began,  but  hesitated. 

''I  thought  you  were  he"  she  said,  in  breathless  tones. 
Homer  shuddered  at  the  inflection  of  the  words.  In  such 
accents  might  one  acknowledge  Death's  dominion  over 
one  veil-beloved.  He  threw  off  the  chill  at  his  heart  and 
caught  her  hands. 

"  Myron,"  he  said,  "  who  is  he?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  answered. 

"Tell  me,"  he  urged;  "tell  me,  and  be  he  far  or  near, 
high  or  low,  I  will  bring  him  to  you." 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  repeated.  Then  for  once  moved 
beyond  her  self-control,  "Oh,  that  I  could!" 

"Why  can't  you?"  he  asked  hotly.  "It  is  but  common 
justice — let  him  bear  his  part." 

"I  promised,"  she  replied  simply,  regaining  her  calm, 
the  momentary  glow  of  impatience  dying  out  of  her  voice. 

"  Promised !"  he  echoed.  "  What's  a  promise  given  to 
liim  worth?  Nothing — absolutely  nothing.  Promised! 
He  did  some  fine  promising,  I  dare  swear.  A  promise  to 
him!" 

"I  promised,"  she  said  again;  then  pushing  back  her 
head  a  little  that  she  might  look  him  in  the  face  (for 
she  was  hardly  of  the  common  height  of  women),  she  went 
on:  "I  promised,  and  I  will  keep  my  promise;    ho  will 


I 


62 


THE    UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


come,  and  I  can  wait."  In  an  instant  her  head  sank.  Ilcr 
own  words  had  brouglit  before  her  a  terrible  mirago  of 
what  that  waiting  meant.  He  let  fall  her  hands,  and 
stej^ped  back  a  pace.  The  action  seemed  to  break  the 
bond  that  had  held  at  bay  the  memory  of  the  world. 
Constraint  fell  upon  Homer  Wilson,  and  Myron's  face 
burned  in  the  dusky  light. 

"  Did  you  want  anything?"  she  asked  in  uncertain  tones. 

"  No,"  he  answered.  "  I  saw  your  light  from  the  window 
at  home,  and  I  came  to  see  what  work  was  going  on  so 
early." 

"  I  always  do  what  I  can  before  I  go  to  Mrs.  Deans'," 
she  said;  "this  is  wash-day." 

"  You  will  kill  yourself,"  he  cried  angrily.  "  What's  your 
grandmother  thinking  of?" 

Myron's  head  sank.  "I  deserve  it  all,  you  know,"  she 
said.  "  I " 

"You've  no  call  to  kill  yourself,"  retorted  Homer  hotly. 
"  Mrs.  Deans  is  an  old  wretch,  and  your  grandmother's 
a " 

"  She's  good  to  my  baby,"  said  Myron,  checking  his 
speech  with  a  gesture.  He  recalled  the  child's  existence, 
and,  moved  by  an  odd  impulse,  said  gently: 

"How  is  your  child,  Myron?" 

She  glanced  at  him  with  a  gratitude  so  intense  that  he 
flushed  and  moved  uneasily — as  one  accredited  with  a 
worthy  deed  he  has  not  done. 

"  Oh,  so  well,"  she  said.    "  lie "    She  paused,  her  face 

flaming.    "  Oh,  do  go ■' 

"Let  me  carry  that  pailful  for  you?"  he  asked,  hesi- 
tatingly. 

"No — no — do  go!"  she  returned. 

Both  were  now  painfully  constrained  and  eager  to  be 
alone. 


\y 


t 


1 


r 


? 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


^'3 


"Well,  I  may  tis  ^.oll  bo  going,  ilieii,"  said  Homer;  and 
turning,  made  toward  the  gap  in  the  fence,  through  which 
ho  had  entered  the  garden.  Once  on  the  street,  he 
quickly  ran  across  the  two  streets  of  the  village,  and  made 
his  way  through  the  fields,  reaching  his  own  barns  just  as 
his  mother  came  to  the  kitchen  door.  She  was  looking 
toward  the  village,  and  saying  shrilly  to  her  husband : 

"  W  it  did  I  tell  you?  Up  and  gone  at  this  time !  Fine 
doings  '  ese,  I  must  say!  Oh,  I  knowed  it  by  the  way  he 
spunked  up  last  night  when  I  jest  was  giving  him  a  hint 
to  look  out  for  her.  I  tell  ye  no  such  woman  as  that  sets 
her  foot  in  these  doors;  no,  not  if  he  laws  on  it.  I  tell 
ye " 

"Did  you  want  me,  mother?"  asked  Homer,  showing 
himself  at  the  stable-door,  curry-comb  and  brush  in  hand. 
•     "  Oh,  you're  there,  be  yc?"  said  his  mother,  with  a  gasp 
of  surprise. 

"Yes,"  said  Homer;  "do  you  want  me?" 

"No;  oh,  no.  I  was  just  looking  at  the  morning,"  said 
his  mother,  and  vanished. 

"Just  got  back  in  time,"  soliloquized  Homer,  contemptu- 
ously, as  he  went  back  to  his  work. 

Left  alone,  Myron  Holder  stood  a  moment  motionless. 
Then  she  took  a  few  steps  forward,  into  the  shadow  of  the 
bush  that  but  lately  had  held  for  her  such  cruel  delusion. 
The  mists  of  the  morning  that  still  lingered  about  the 
bush  parted  at  her  passage  and  clung  round  her,  chill 
shreds  of  vapor. 

The  evanescent  flush  died  out  of  her  face ;  her  eyes  were 
dazed  with  pain — she  locked  her  hands  (stained  with  the 
rust  of  the  windlass  chain)  and  wrung  them  cruelly; 
now  she  pressed  her  quivering  lips  together — now  they 
parted  in  shuddering  respirations.  How  many  tides  of 
hope  had  swelled  within  her  heart!      How  stony  were 


I 


H 


|fr    \ 


64 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


% 


the  shores  on  which  they  had  spent  themselves!  How 
salt  the  memory  of  their  floods!  Bu*  Ti«ver  a  wave  of 
them  all  had  risen  so  high  as  this  one,  which  iiad  swept 
her  forward  to  the  very  haven  of  hope  only  to  leave  her 
fast  upon  the  sands  of  despair. 

She  looked  from  side  to  side,  with  pitiable  helplessness 
in  her  eyes,  over  tlie  desolate  garden.  Each  bush  seemed  a 
mocking  sentinel  appointed  to  watch  her  misery ;  nay,  to 
her  stricken  heart  each  seemed  the  abiding  place  of  some 
new  cheat  that  in  time  would  issue  forth  to  delude  and 
torture  her.  Unfailing  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes;  she 
let  her  face  fall  in  her  hands  and  breathed  forth  a  name — 

"  Like  the  yearning  cry  of  some  bewildered  bird 
Above  an  empty  nest" ; 

but  more  softly  than  any  plaint  of  bird  was  that  name 
uttered,  whispered  so  faintly  that  no  cadence  of  its  sound 
trembled  even  amidst  the  leaves  that  brushed  her  down- 
bent  head. 

Presently  Myron  Holder  stood  erect,  her  face  masked  by 
a  patience  more  poignant  than  pain,  more  sublime  than 
sorrow,  more  dreadful  than  despair. 

Not  all  heroic  souls  are  cast  in  heroic  shapes.  There  was 
something  in  this  woman's  hard-wrought  hands,  and  sim- 
ple garb,  and  weary  eyes,  and  tender  mouth — nay,  in  the 
undefinable  meekness  of  her  attitude,  that  belied  her 
courage.  She  filled  her  pail  and  bore  it  to  the  house, 
setting  her  face  as  resolutely  toward  her  fate  as  she  set  her 
hand  to  carrying  the  heavy  pail ;  and,  heavy  as  her  burden 
was,  she  rebelled  no  more  against  bearing  it  than  she  did 
against  the  weight  of  the  pail  that  she  herself  had  filled. 

•  "  Earth  has  seen 
[•  Love's  brightest  roses  on  the  scaflfold  bloom, 

I  Mingling  with  freedom's  fadeless  laurels  there.  ** 


/ 


t 


i 


A 


.te^^:^tf^^>^iaaimjiM 


/ 


TnE   UNTEMPERED  XVTND 


65 


But  easier  indeed  were  it  to  lay  Love's  roses  in  full 
blossom  on  a  scaffold  than  to  cherish  them,  as  this  woman 
did  and  other  women  have  done,  in  the  \,astes  of  a 
betrayed  trust — their  blossoms  dyed  a  frightful  scarlet  by 
the  blood  of  a  breaking  heart.  Love's  roses  grow  in  bitter 
soil  ofttimes;  their  petals  are  soon  spent,  but  their  thorns 
are  amaranthine. 


CHAiTER  VIL 


ii  'J 


\ 


"  We  rest — a  dream  has  power  to  poison  sleep  ; 
We  rise — one  wandering  tliought  pollutes  the  day.  " 

"  Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colored  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity 
Until  death  tramples  it  to  fragments.  " 

"  The  silent  workings  of  the  dawn  "  were  past,  and  the 
whole  sky  pearled  to  an  exquisite  soft  grayness  when 
Myron  Holder  set  out  that  day  to  go  to  Mrs.  Deans'. 
The  road  swam  dizzily  before  her ;  the  snake  fence  zig- 
zagged wildly;  the  trees  whirled  round;  the  very  stones 
appeared  as  if  rolling  over  and  over  in  awkward  gambols; 
the  wayside  cows  loomed  gigantic  to  her  uncertain  vision. 
Her  head  throbbed  heavily — her  knees  trembled ;  the  phys- 
ical reaction  following  supreme  mental  effort  had  set  in, 
and  her  nerves,  denied  outward  expression  of  the  strain 
put  upon  them,  \vere  racking  her  frame  sorely.  She 
persevered,  however,  holding  a  wavering  course  from  one 
side  of  the  road  to  the  other ;  at  last  she  reached  the  little 
graveyard  of  Jamestown,  wedged  in  between  the  farms  of 
Mr.  White  and  Mr.  Deans.  Its  picket-fence  was  gar- 
landed with  long  trails  of  the  native  virgin-bower  clematis, 


f 


|-»,t 


I  I 


66 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


just  jnitting  forth  its  first  leaf-buds.  The  hepaticas,  their 
blossoms  past,  sliowed  circular  clumps  of  broad,  green 
leaves,  standing  erect  on  downy  stalks  over  the  prostrate 
copper-colored  ones  of  last  year;  the  blood-root  had  lost 
all  its  white  petals,  and  its  spear-pointed  seed-pods  and  sin- 
gle, broad,  green  leaves  stood  in  thick  masses,  like  miniature 
stands  of  arms,  spear  and  shield;  but  the  trilliums  were 
nodding  their  triune-leaved  blossoms;  the  wild  phlox 
swayed  daintily  its  cluster  of  fragile  azure  blooms;  the 
meadow  violets  were  clustered  in  dark-blue  masses;  the 
bracken  ferns  were  uncoiling  their  fuzzy  fronds;  the  May 
apples  (mandrake)  were  pointing  through  the  mellow  soil, 
like  so  many  small  wax  candles.  Now  and  then  a  pungent 
odor  came  to  her  as  she  trod  upon  the  fresh-springing 
pennyroyal,  or  bruised  the  stems  of  the  mint  that  grew 
everywhere. 

She  was  late  already,  as  she  knew,  but  was  moved  to  go 
to  see  her  father's  sleeping-place.  She  went  slowly 
between  the  graves,  carefully  avoiding  treading  on  any  of 
them.  Her  father  had  told  her  of  the  ill-luck  that  fol- 
lows the  foot  that  treads  upon  a  grave  and  the  hand  that 
casts  away  bread.  By  what  fearful  sacrilege  had  this 
woman  purchased  her  fate? 

Her  eyes  were  clearing  now ;  and  as  she  stood  beside  her 
father's  grave,  she  looked  upon  it  steadily  enough.  She 
felt  a  rapt  sense  of  his  presence — he  had  been  very  good  to 
her  in  his  absent-minded  way.  If  he  had  lived!  The 
woman  found  herself  grateful  that  he  died  before.  She 
rested  her  thoughts  here  to  ask  herself  a  question :  If  her 
father  had  lived,  would  she  have  lost  herself?  She  held 
her  breath  for  an  instant — then  turned  and  sped  from  his 
grave.  She  felt  that  her  gaze  defiled  it — for,  throbbing  in 
each  artery,  tingling  through  every  vein,  poisoning  her 
heart,  she  felt  her  whole  being  rise  to  affirm  its  shame — 


t 


I 


VUf 

V 


t 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


67 


to  give  the  d  limning  answer  "Yes"  to  that  poignant  self- 
iiitevrogation. 

8I10  was  certainly  late  that  morning,  and  Mrs.  Deans 
met  her  witli  Hushed  face  and  angry  eyes. 

"Well,  this  is  a  nice  time  of  day!  'Laziness  is  much 
worth  when  it's  well  guided.'  It  would  seem  to  me, 
Myron  Holder,  as  if  you'd  try  to  make  some  return  for 
tlie  favors  I've  shown  you,  and  what  I've  done  for  you, 
and  what  I've  put  up  with.  Time  and  time  again,  I've 
said  to  myself,  says  I,  'Let  her  go — what's  the  good  of  her? 
What's  the  good  of  keeping  a  dog  and  doing  your  own 
barking?'  But  being  sorry  for  you,  I  never  said  nothing. 
But  now,  I  tell  you,  Myron  Holder,  this  thing's  got  to  quit — 
either  you  can  come  here  in  decent  time,  or  you  can  stay 
home!"  Then,  in  a  more  insulting  tone  of  voice,  she 
asked:  "What  time  did  ye  start  this  morning?  I'll 
ask  your  grandmother.  Pretty  doings  these,  loitering 
along  the  roads!  I'd  have  thought  you'd  had  enough  of 
that.  Well,  don't  look  at  me  like  that!  You're  too  good 
to  be  spoken  to,  I  suppose;  it's  a  pity  you  didn't  do  some 
blushing  before  now!  It's  rather  late  in  the  day  for  such 
delikit  feelings — you  what?  Stopped  in  the  graveyard? 
I  wouldn't  wonder,  nothing  more  likely;  were  you  alone? 
Well  'twasn't  your  fault,  if  you  were.  I  guess  Jed  Holder 
thinks  himself  lucky  to  be  rid  of  the  world  and  sich 
doings  as  yours.  Poor  Jed !  Little  did  he  know  what 
shame  he  was  leaving  behind  him.  How  your  grandmother 
stands  it  and  how  she  abides  that  brat,  1  can't  see.  One 
thing  I've  always  said:  'Don't  bring  me  no  such  brats  as 
them,  for  I  won't  be  concerned  with  no  such  doings !'  But 
there,  what's  the  use  of  talking?  I  never  say  nothing, 
but  I  think  a  lot.  I  guess  your  mother  must  have  been  a 
beauty  from  all  I  hear  tell.  Certainly  you  didn't  get  your 
bad  blood  off  Jed  Holder,  and  you  must  have  took  it  some- 


.■:'-* 

''\i 


6d 


THE    UNTLMPERED   WIND 


\ 


1 


where.  *  Like  mother,  like  chihl' — well — none  of  puch 
worry  for  me!"  Then,  stepping  jiside  siuhlonly,  and  tiius 
clearing  the  passage  she  had  hitherto  barred,  slie  went 
on:  "  What  are  you  standing  looking  at?  Ain't  you  going 
to  scrub  to-day,  or  are  3'ou  come  visiting?  I'm  sorry  if 
you  have" — here  a  fine  sarcasm  echoed  in  her  tone — 
"because  I  can't  go  and  set  down  and  entertain  you,  for 
I  have  my  bread  and  butter  to  earn.  But  don't  mind  me — • 
go  right  into  the  setting-room  and  make  yourself  at  home." 

Myron  having  availed  herself  of  the  first  opportunity  to 
move  from  under  Mrs.  Deans'  insulting  glances,  had 
already  divested  herself  of  her  sunbonnet,  and  was  I'etting 
cloths  and  water  for  her  scrubbing.  >Soon  slie  escaped 
from  Mrs.  Deans'  eyes,  but  the  sound  of  her  jibing 
tongue  came  harshly  to  her  in  every  pause  of  her  work. 

The  forenoon  pa  1.  After  dinner  the  iiired  man 
brought  the  newsp<'ii)tr  in  and  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Deans. 
She  looked  at  the  price  of  butter  and  eggs,  and  passed  it 
to  her  husband. 

He  sat  blinking  by  the  half-open  window:  npon  the 
window-sill  was  a  bottle  of  sarsaparilla,  a  patch- work  pin- 
cushion, and  two  or  three  potatoes  Homer  Wilson  had 
brought  to  the  Deans  as  samples — he  being  agent  for  a 
seedsman.  Mrs.  Deans  brought  out  a  big  canvas -bag  of 
carpet-balls,  and,  placing  two  chairs  back  to  back,  began 
winding  the  balls  into  huge  skeins.  Sho  was  going  to 
dye  them.  Mrs.  Deans  worked  away  with  her  hanks, 
tying  them  carefully  in  separate  strands,  so  that  they 
would  dye  equally.  Mr.  Deans  read  his  paper,  its  leaves 
rustling  in  his  tremulous  fingers.  The  sound  of  Myron 
Holder's  scrubbing  came  raspingly  through  the  air.  The 
bound  girl  was  out  in  the  "yard"  raking  'ogether  dead 
leaves,  bits  of  old  bones,  and  emptied  sarsaparilla  bottles, 
making  it  tidy  for  the  summer. 


i 


\ 


I 


i 


i 


I     '*» 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


69 


"Well,  Jane!"  cjiicuhitcil  Iloiiry  IVaiis,  iu  a  tone  of 
pleased  surpriro,  "who  d'ye  tliiiik'a  dead?" 

"Who?  Old  Mrs.  White?  U  it  her?  Or  Mrs. 
AVarner's  sister  up  in  Ovid?  She  was  hjok  tei'ible  bad  a 
week  ago  Friday.  It',-  young  Knimons!  I  know  it!  15ut 
say,  isn't  he  owing  for  that  last  cord  of  wood?  I  never 
seen  anything  like  it,  the  way  people  cheat!  It's  some- 
thing awful!  Hut  I'll  have  that  four  dollars,  though,  out 
of  Mame  Emmons.  If  she  can  afford  flannel  at  llfty  cents 
a  yard  (and  Ann  AVliite  saw  her  pricing  it),  she  can  alTord 
to  pay  her  debts.  Well,  them  Emnionses  always  was 
shiftless,  but " 

"It  ain't  Emmons,  though  Homer  Wilson  says  he  looks 
most  terrible  had;  it's  Follett!" 

"You  don't  say!" 'said  Mrs.  Deans;  "you  don't  say! 
When  was  he  took?" 

"It  don't  tell,"  answered  her  husband,  screwing  his 
eyes  horribly  as  he  read  the  obituary  over  again.  "  It 
don't  tell — oh — yts  it  does!  'Caught  a  heavy  cold  a 
month  ago  and  settled  on  his  kings.  Well,  he's  gone, 
then." 

"Not  much  loss,  his  kind  ain't,"  said  Mrs.  Deans  con- 
temptuously. 

"Wonder  if  he  forgot  me  before  he  went?"  said  her 
husband,  with  a  reflective  enjoyment.  "That  was  a  pretty 
good  one,  wasn't  it,  Jane?" 

"Yes;  no  mistake  about  it,  Henry,  you  hit  the  nail  on 
the  head  that  time.  Ideclare.it  does  beat  all  how  time 
flies.     Just  think!  it's  six  years  full  since  then " 

"  Six  years  full — no,  seven,"  assented  Mr.  Deans. 

"No,  six,"  said  his  wife;  "it  was  just  the  year  before 
your  accident." 

"So  'twas."  A  pause,  then  he  said,  "I  think  I'll  have 
some  sarsa^Ki-illy,  Jane." 


J  "#1 


I  j\ 


f\ 


i 


TO 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


Mrs.  Doiins  got  a  spoon  from  tljc  table-drawer,  drew  out 
the  gummy  (;ork,  and  gave  him  a  spoonful. 

"Better  have  a  taste  yourself,"  he  suggested. 

"Don't  know  but  1  will,"  she  said,  and  helped  herself 
to  a  dram. 

The  cork  was  replaced;  silence  fell  upon  the  pair. 
Henry  Deans  and  his  wife  had  partaken  of  the  closest 
communion  they  k'^ew.  IVIrs.  Deans  left  her  rags  jires- 
ently  to  go  out  to  superintend  the  placing  of  some  new 
cliicken-coops,  and  Mr.  Deans  dozed  off  into  a  pleasurable 
reverie,  evoked  by  the  death  of  Dan  Follett. 

Around  the  name  of  Dan  Follett  clustered  the  recol- 
lections of  Mr.  Deans'  happiest  achievement — for,  using 
Dan  Follett  as  an  unworthy  instrument,  he  had  purged 
Jamestown  of  malt  and  spirituous  liquors  and  brought 
the  village  within  the  temperance  fold. 

It  was  thus:  Dan  Follett  had  come  to  "keep  tavern"  in 
the  old  Black  Horse  Inn.  This  was  a  quaint  brick  build- 
ing that  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  Front  Street  nearest 
the  lake.  It  had  but  a  narrow  frontage  on  the  Front 
Street,  but  stretched  back,  a  long  building,  on  the  side 
street.  From  the  corner  of  the  inn  hung  a  sign-board, 
depending  from  an  iron  rod.  The  sign  was  a  jet  black 
horse,  rrtmjwrtw^,  with  the  legend,  "Black  Horse  Inn." 
The  front  of  the  inn,  rising  abruptly,  as  it  did, 
from  the  side-walk,  was  more  quaint  than  inviting,  but 
the  side  view  was  very  hospitable,  for  all  along  the  side 
street  a  veranda  (floored  with  oak  and  roofed  by  the 
second  story  of  the  inn,  which  overhung  it)  extended, 
approached  by  broad,  generous  steps.  It  was  an  old, 
old  building,  with  queer  nooks  and  corners  in  it,  quaint 
brass  newel-posts  in  the  stairway,  odd  sideboards  built 
into  the  walls,  and  dark,  hardwood  floors.  It  was  by 
far  th§  oldest  building   in  Jamestown,  ?md  the  huge, 


4 


\ 


''\\KmmKmm&miMMvimfmaim»mm»mk 


THE    UN  TEMP  EKED   W'lXD 


71 


\ 


nntidy  willow  tree  before  the  door  had  grown  from  n 
Bwitch  thrown  down  by  one  of  the  soldiers,  when  ho  and 
his  comrades  departed  after  their  long  billet  in  James- 
town. 

Jamestown  was  not  called  Jamestown  in  those  days, 
but  Kingsville.  Times  had  changed  with  the  village, 
and  its  name  with  them ;  but  the  Black  Horse  Inn  re- 
mained unchanged — only  the  bricks  had  reddened  the 
mortar  between  them,  so  that  its  walls  were  all  one  dark, 
rich  red.  "  Many  a  summer's  silent  fingering"  had 
wrought  a  green  lace-work  of  ivy  over  the  front  and  at 
the  corners,  and  about  the  chimneys  a  vivid  green  stain 
showed  the  minute  mosses  that  were  gathering  there.  It 
was  having  indeed  a  green  old  age;  and  if  the  second  story 
was  beginning  to  sag  a  little  between  the  centre-posts,  it 
conveyed  no  hint  of  decay,  or  lack  of  safety.  The  droop 
only  showed  a  kindly  and  protective  attitude  towards  tlic 
open-armed  chairs  that  stood  on  the  veranda  beneath. 

In  the  little  garden  behind  the  inn,  long  neglected  and 
overrun,  were  bushes  of  acrid  wormwood,  stray  wisps  of 
thyme,  straggling  roots  of  rosemary,  and  bushes  of  flower- 
ing currants.  In  the  spring,  from  among  its  springing 
grasses  came  wliiffs  of  perfume;  for  the  English  violets, 
planted  long,  long  ago,  had  spread  through  and  through 
the  tangle  of  weeds,  unkempt  grass,  and  untrimmed 
bushes. 

The  one  ambition  that  had  lived  in  Jed  Holder's  sad- 
dened breast  after  he  came  to  Jamestown  was  to  be  able" 
to  rent  the  Black  Horse  Inn.  But  it  was  only  a  vague, 
purposeless  wish  to  possess  the  right  of  that  little  square 
garden,  amid  whose  desolation  he  discerned  the  traces  of 
an  English  hand.  Like  so  many  of  Jed's  dreams,  this  one 
never  materialized. 

To  this  IiQuse,  then,  came  Dan  Follett— displayed  \m 


w 


r>' 


if 


72 


THE    UNrEMPERED  WIND 


license  to  sell  "wine,  beer,  malt  and  other  spirituous 
liquors,"  set  out  some  hospitable  armchairs,  erected  ahorse- 
t-ough  before  the  door,  and,  having  assumed  a  huge  and 
glistening  white  apron,  strode  about,  a  jolly,  good- 
natured,  guardian  spirit.  Ilis  rubicund  face  was  always 
beaming,  his  little  eyes  always  blinking  away  tears  of 
laughter.  There  was  but  little  trade  in  Jamestown,  but 
FoUct  managed  to  make  ends  meet,  for  the  lake  was  noted 
for  its  fishing,  and  parties  of  fishermen  were  right  glad  to 
find  a  place  where  they  could  leave  their  horses  and  refresh 
themselves.  But  Dan  Follett  and  Dan  Follett's  business 
were  sore  rocks  of  offence  in  the  eyes  of  the  Jamestown 
brethren. 

At  "  after  meeting"  many  plans  were  discussed  for  the 
discomfiture  of  Dan  Follett,  and,  incidentally,  the  devil. 
Many  a  "class  meeting"  evolved  an  indignation  caucus 
which  dealt  with  tlie  enormity  of  Dan  Follett's  calling, 
which  was  cited,  with  many  epithets,  as  the  cause  of  every 
evil  under  the  sun.  But  of  all  this  righteous  indignation 
jolly  Dan  Follett  took  no  heed,  and  was  as  ready  to  lend 
his  stout  brown  horse  to  Mr.  Deans  or  Mr.  White  when 
their  own  "  odd"  horse  was  busy  as  he  was  to  hire  it  to 
the  few  fishermen  who  fancied  a  ride  along  the  lake  shore. 

Henry  Deans  brooded  long  over  this  unholy  thing  in 
their  midst,  and  finally  hit  upon  a  plan  to  put  the  devil, 
in  the  person  of  Dan  Follett,  to  some  discomfiture.  Mr. 
Deans  was  senior  deacon  in  the  Methodist  Chur«^h  and,  as 
such,  took  it  upon  himself  to  provide  the  bread  and  wine 
for  sacramental  purposes.  One  Saturday,  the  day  before 
the  spring  communion,  Mrs.  Deans  stood  admiring  her 
bread. 

"I  reckon  Ann  White'll  open  her  eyes  when  she  tastes 
that  to-morrow,"  slie  said.  "There's  nothing  like  making 
your  own  yeast — good  hop-yeast.    I  don't  take        account 


K\ 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


73 


\ 


with  salt-rising  bread ;  may  be  sure  enough,  but  hops  for 
me  every  time." 

These  audible  mediations  were  interrupted  by  a  tramp's 
voice  at  the  open  door — a  forlorn-looking  object,  asking 
for  something  to  eat.  Mrs.  Deans  gave  him  some  good 
advice  about  idleness,  drinking,  and  begging,  and  sent  him 
off.  Then  she  turned  her  face  to  the  bread  again,  separat- 
ing the  loaves  carefully,  and  wrapping  two  of  them  up  in 
clean  towels.  A  verse  flitted  through  her  mind  about 
takiuQ-  the  children's  bread  and  giving  it  to  the  dogs;  it 
struck  her  as  apposite,  but  her  good  memory,  strangely 
enough,  failed  to  recall  anything  about  "a  cup  of  cold 
water." 


<<•  rpi 


Them  tramps!"  soliloquized  Mrs.  Deans.  "A  likely 
thing  I  was  goin'  to  break  into  the  bread  for  the  Lord's 
table  for  the  like  of  him!"  She  was  just  putting  the  bread 
into  the  tin  on  the  pantry  floor,  where  she  kept  it,  when 
a  sudden  thought  made  her  drop  the  bread  and  stand 
upright. 

"I  declare!"  she  said.  '' Henry'll  never  remember  the 
wine!  I  forgot  to  tell  him  when  he  went  away!  What  in 
the  world  will  we  do  now?  Borrow  it  of  Ann  White  I 
won't;  that's  settled.    Well,  if  it  don't  beat  all!" 

Henry  Deans  returned  from  the  Saturday  market  about 
three  o'clock ;  Mrs.  Deans  met  him  in  the  yard  and  asked 
him,  before  the  horses  stopped: 

"  Did  you  remember  the  wine?" 

A  slow  smile  crept  over  Henry  Deans'  face.  He  pulled, 
up  his  horses  deliberately. 

"Did  j^ou  remember  the  wine?"  asked  his  wife  again. 

"  Yes,  I  remembered  it,"  he  answered,  still  smiling  slowly. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  "  why  didn't  you  say  so  at  first? 

about  it 


J' 


nearly 


my 


rying 


9,11  dav.    Where  is  it?     Hand  it  here  and  I'll  take  it  in. 


ii 
,','1*1 


ia 


74 


T//E    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


"I  haven't  got  it  yet,"  said  her  husband,  descending 
nimbly  from  his  perch,  and  then,  for  it  was  dangerous  to 
prolong  a  joke  too  far  with  his  wifcj  he  went  and  whis- 
pered in  her  ear. 

Mrs.  Deans'  face  slowly  became  irradiate  with  a  joyful 
and  appreciative  glow. 

"  Well,  Henry,"  she  said,  "you're  no  slouch,  I  tell  you; 
I  alv,,iys  knew  your  head  was  level." 

"Guess  that'll  sicken  him,  eh?"  chuckled  ifenry 
Deans,  and  began  to  unbuckle  his  harness-straps. 

For  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  Henry  Deans  and  his  wife 
went  about  in  smiling  content,  chuckling  irrepressibly  if 
they  chanced  to  meet. 

They  had  supper  at  six.  Night  was  already  setting  in,  for 
the  days  were  not  at  their  longest  yet.  About  half-past 
seven,  Henry  Deans  got  his  hat,  and,  his  wife  letting  him 
softly  out  of  the  front  door,  took  his  v,ay  to  the  village. 
He  soon  reached  its  outskirts.  Down  the  unlighted  back 
street  he  went,  across  the  short  transverse  one,  until  the 
side  door  of  the  Black  Horse  Inn  was  reached.  Dan  Fol- 
lett  answered  his  knock  in  person.  There  was  a  short 
colloquy  between  the  two ;  then  Dan  went  his  way  to  the 
darkened  bar-room,  and,  having  declined  an  invitation  to 
go  inside,  Henry  Deans  waited.  Presently  Dan  returned 
with  a  bottle  and,  after  a  generous  demur,  accepted 
the  money  which  Mr.  Deans  insisted  on  paying,  saying: 

"  I'm  not  a  church-goer  myself,  Mr.  Deans,  but  I 
wouldn't  begrudge  giving  a  little  now  and  again;"  then 
after  repeating  his  invitation,  bade  Mr.  Deans  a  cheery 
"CJood-night,"  and  closed  the  door. 

Henry  Deans  went  home,  hardly  able  to  restrain  his 
mirth.  From  far  down  the  road  he  saw  a  narrow  slit  of 
light,  showing  the  fiont  door  ajar  for  him.  He  slipped 
inside,  to  be  immediately  greeted  by  his  wife. 


T 


1  J.4!:;IMSJ^■M^^^.l^'V^:J 


^^^S!S&SSS^ 


THE    UNTEMPKRED   WIND 


75 


\ 


"Did  you  get  it?"  she  asked,  brejithlessly. 

"I  got  it,  and  liiin,  too,"  said  Henry  Deans;  and  they 
laughed  together,  as  tliey  put  the  bread  and  wine  for  the 
Lord's  table  in  a  basket. 

The  next  day,  a  sweet  and  sunshiny  Sunday,  the  mystery 
of  the  Lord's  Supper  was  yet  again  enacted  in  Jamestown 
— the  symbolic  wine,  clear  and  ruddy  as  heart's  blood;  the 
bread,  white  as  an  infant's  brow. 

Next  day  Henry  Deans  drove  to  the  market  town.  On 
Tuesday  Dan  Follett  was  served  with  a  summons  to 
appear  before  the  Court  to  show  why  he  had  broken  the 
law  by  selling  a  bottle  of  wine  to  one  Henry  Deans  in 
unlawful  hours. 

Follett's  rago  was  intense,  and  could  only  be  gauged  by 
the  height  of  Henry  Deans'  satisfaction.  Of  course  Fol- 
lett was  fined.  He  had  no  defence  and  offered  none,  but 
was  fain  to  relieve  his  mind  by  attempting  to  thra-^h 
Deans,  which  only  resulted  in  his  being  laid  under  bonds 
to  keep  the  peace.  The  whole  affair  had  completely  sick- 
ened Follett  of  Jamestown.  He  departed  to  new  scenes, 
and  the  Black  Horse  Inn  again  was  tenantless. 

The  exploit  covered  Henry  Deans  with  glory,  nnd  ho 
bore  the  honor  with  the  conscious  front  of  one  who  feels 
he  is  not  overestimated.  Dan  Follett  was  dead  now,  and 
Henry  Deans  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  in  musing  over  his 
memories.  And  from  the  lonely  garden  of  the  Black 
Horse  Inn  the  English  sweet  violets  sent  up  their  fra- 
grance to  the  unperceiving  night.  ,       ' 


76 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WlXD 


gPAPTEU   VHT. 

"  Oh,  yet  wc  trust  tluit  sonA(>\\o\v  good 
Will  bo  the  llual  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  uatvne,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt  and  taints  of  blood.  " 


Next  clay,  early  .in  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Deans  put  away 
her  sewing,  and,  donning  a  black  bonnet  and  a  largo 
brocbe  shawl  folded  corner-wise,  betook  herself  out  of  tlu) 
house.  She  went  quietly,  even  sneakingly — this  caution 
was  exercised  with  an  object.  Mrs.  Deans  did  not  want 
the  bound  girl  to  know  she  had  gone.  Such  knowledge 
would  be  too  conducive  to  a  sinful  peace  of  mind. 

Mrs.  Deans  took  her  way  to  the  village,  intent  on  get- 
ting some  dye  from  the  store.  She  hesitated  before  the  gate 
of  the  Holder  cottage,  then,  assuming  a  look  calculated  to 
sliow  the  beholder  that  the  milk  of  human  kindness  had 
in  her  case  turned  to  cream,  she  entered  the  garden. 
Partly  out  of  a  desire  to  show  old  Mrs.  Holder  that  this 
was  really  a  neighborly  visit,  and  partly  to  come  upon  her 
unawares  if  possible  and  see  what  she  was  doing,  and  also 
to  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  child  without  asking 
to  see  it,  Mrs.  Deans  followed  the  little  footpath  round  to 
the  back  door.  It  was  open.  The  small  kitchen  was 
scrupulously  clean;  some  washtubs  stood  in  one  corner 
full  of  soapy  water,  awaiting  the  return  of  Myron  to  emp^^v 
them.  Mrs.  nolder  had  deferred  her  washing,  evidently. 
A  line  hung  diagonally  across  one  corner  of  the  room,  ard 
upon  it  a  row  of  little  ill-&haped  garments  hung  drying, 
fluttered  by  the  slight  breeze  from  the  open  door.  The  rest 
of  the  s(!anty  washing  Mrs.  Deans  could  S'^f^  in  the  garden ; 
old  Mrs.  Holder  never  hung  a  g-ciTi'mt  o+i  lie  ghild's 
outside, 


. 


lEim&^ZSaSSX 


\ 


rnii    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


77 


Mrs.  Deans  scrutinized  all  tlicse  tliingF,  standing  at  the 
open  door,  but  not  knowing  where  Mrs.  Holder  niiglit  be; 
and  fearful  lest  the  sharp-eyed  old  Englislnvoman  had 
already  seen  her  spying  out  the  land,  she  felt  impelled  to 
knock.  This  she  did,  and  in  a  moment  Mrs.  Holder  came 
from  the  front  room.  Seeing  Mrs.  Deans,  slie  greeted  her 
with  the  nearest  approach  to  warmth  she  was  capable  of 
displaying,  and  placed  a  wooden  rocking-chair  for  her, 
sitting  down  herself  in  a  narrow  high-bucked  wooden 
chair,  bolt  upright  and  with  her  arms  folded.  Presently 
she  let  fall  her  hands  into  her  lap,  twisting  them  ner- 
vously, one  within  the  other;  they  were  bleaclied  an 
unhealthy  pallor,  and  their  palms  and  fingers  tips  crinkled 
like  crape,  from  her  washing. 

"And  how  are  you,  Mrs.  Deans?"  she  asked.  Her  voice 
held  a  strong  English  accent. 

"Oh,  well;  for  which  I  ought  to  be  thankful,"  returned 
Mrs.  Deans,  "  Considering  them  as  is  took  that  is  unpre- 
pared, we  ought  to  be  grateful  that  'we're,  spared,  for  it 
would  seem  as  ./  \hm)  that  is  ready  would  go  the  first, 
pan  Follett  died  last  I'harsday.  iiofy/  do  you  find  your- 
self, Mrs    Tfolder?" 

"Not  well — not  ftf/  «]1  well/'  retur/i^  !  the  old  woman, 
hor  voice  querulous.  "  /  'Hm  took  i'tm)  <^ueer  last  niglit, 
a  gasping  /i f  tor  breath  as  would n'^ /i/;me.  Vm  nigh  tired 
enough  o'  living,  if  I  could  die  mind  ^asy,  bn^  f  can't." 

"  Yes,  '  Sttid  Mrs.  Deans,  pursing  her  lips  and  shaking 
her  head,  "we  all  have  our  troubles;  ]>ut  you  have  had  a 
terrible  affliction,  and,  as  1  l>ave  often  said  to  Henry,  'Old 
Mrs.  Holder  does  take  it  terrible  hard.'  " 

"It  do  be  hard,"  said  Mrs.  Hddcr.    Then  came' a  pause. 

Mrs.  Deans  was  in  certain  ways  clever;  she  knew  the 
futility  of  attempting  to  force  Mrs.  Holder's  confidence, 
therefore   she  ccntented  herself  with  a  lugubrious  shako 


I  --l 


m.  ,: 


Ik. I 


\ 


78 


T//J£    UNTEMPEkED  WIND 


\ 


of  her  lieucl,  11  sympathetic  expi    sion  of  eye,  iiud  iniir- 
mured : 

"Yes— it's  terrible  hard!" 

"Yes,"  began  Mrs.  Holder,  almost  reflectively,  "to 
think  as  it  should  come  to  me,  being  afraid  o'  being 
buried,  due  to  not  knowing  who's  going  to  lay  along  0'  me. 
It  do  seem  main  hard" — here  the  speaker's  tones  grew  hard 
and  her  beady  eyes  venomous — "but  I'll  And  a  way  some- 
how. Myron  Kind's  daughter  and  her  bastard  brat  don't 
never  lay  alongside  0'  my  son  and  me." 

Light  now  dawned  upon  Mrs.  Deans.  She  fully  appre- 
ciated Mrs.  Holder's  attitude  in  the  matter;  she  rose  to 
tiio  occasion. 

"It's  the  lot  up  in  the  cemetery  that's  worrying  you," 
she  said.  "Well,  so  'cwouid  me,  to  think  a  young  one 
sich  as  that  was  going  to  be  next  hand,  touching  me  in 
my  grave!" 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  sound  from  the  adjoining 
bedroom,  the  door  was  ajar,  a  chubby  hand  reached 
through  the  opening,  and  pulled  the  door  v/ide,  and  the 
next  instant,  Myron's  baby,  roused  from  his  sleep  by  the 
sound  of  their  voices,  came  out,  and,  walking  totteringly 
across  the  floor,  took  hold  of  his  grandmother's  dress,  and 
stood  eying  Mrs.  Deans  with  the  frank  impertinence  of 
babyhood. 

His  yellow  hair  was  tossed  and  tangled ;  his  blue  eyes,  a 
little  heavy  yet  from  sleep,  were  placid  and  happy;  his 
face  was  round  and  dimpled,  one  cheek  flushed  a  deep  rose 
from  the  pressure  of  the  pillow.  lie  looked  indeed  per- 
fect as  any  cherubic  picture.  However  such  children  as 
he  may  develop — undoubtedly  the  blond,  rosy,  dimpled 
type  is  the  ideal  baby. 

TJiere  was  something  gi'otesque  in  these  two  women: 
their  souls  grimed  with  the  dust  of  their  own  sins,  their 


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TiTK    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


70 


hearts  hardened  beneath  a  crust  of  their  own  self-seeking 
lusts,  their  bodies  calloused  by  the  world,  defiled  by  their 
own  passions,  fearing  contamination,  living  or  dead,  from 
too  near  vicinity  to  that  child. 

"Eun  away.  My,"  said  his  grandmother,  giving  him 
a  little  push.  The  baby  stood  still  a  moment.  A  gray  cat 
peeped  in  at  the  door,  and  then  withdrew  its  head ;  with  a 
gurgle  of  laughter,  the  child  trotted  after  it. 

Mrs.  Deans  had  been  eying  him  steadily  since  his 
appearance. 

"Now,  iiilio  does  that  young  one  look  like?"  said  she 
with  emphasis,  as  if  to  force  an  answer  by  her  ear- 
nestness. 

"  Nobody,"  said  Mrs.  Holder.  "  He  do  be  'witched,  I 
think.  I  never  see  a  child  like  him  afore.  You  could 
always  see  a  likeness  in  some  trick  or  other,  but  that  young 
one  has  no  tricks  with  him;  them's  his  ways,  such  as 
you've  seen:  eat — smile — sleep." 

"  Well,  it  beats  all,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  feeling  exasperated. 

A  trill  of  inarticulate  laughter  interrupted  them,  and 
the  baby  appeared  at  the  door,  the  gray  cat  in  his 
arms,  wriggling  to  free  itself.  It  did.  Putting  its  hind 
legs  against  the  baby's  breast,  it  sprang  out  of  his  arms; 
the  recoil  sent  the  boy  down,  but  he  picked  himself  up 
and  again  began  the  pursuit. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Holder,  you  was  telling  me  about  the  cem- 
etery lot,"  said  Mrs.  Deans. 

"Yes;"  returned  her  hostess.  "It's  this  way:  there's 
four  graves  in  the  lot,  and  only  one  took  up.  I  can't 
abear  to  think  on  It;  to  think  wliether  I  will  or  no  that  I 
have  to  lie  wi'  such  a  lot  an'  rise  wi'  'em  at  the  day." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  in  a  meditative  voice,  "well  " 
— a. long  pause,  then  she  added:  "Now,  if  'twasn't  for 
olTeuding  you,  Mrs.  Holder,  I  think  I  can  see  my  way!" 


¥ 


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8o 


THE   UMTEMPEIiED  WIND 


# 


"Pll  be  right  gliul  if  you  do,"  said  Mrs.  Holder,  ea- 
gerly; "it's  vexing  me  sore." 

"  Well,"  began  Mrs.  Deans,  "  it's  this  way.  I've  done  a 
lot  of  business,  one  way  and  another,  and  Pm  used  to 
seeing  through  things,  and  this  is  what  I  would  suggest, 
Mrs.  Holder — not  tliat  I  want  to  make  or  meddle  with 
other  folks'  business,  but  being  always  willing  to  do  what 
I  can  to  help  along,  and  what  I  would  suggest  is  this:  Get 
Muir  to  call  here  and  fix  it  with  him,  so  as  he'll  do  what- 
ever's  necessary  when  the  time  comes;  and  you  give  him 
half  the  lot  for  it,  so,  if  anything  happens,  why  every- 
thing'U  be  done  up  proper;  and  then  he'll  stak€  off  half 
the  lot  and  you  needn't  be  scared ;  he'll  not  let  it  out  of 
his  hands.  That's  what  I  would  suggest,  Mrs.  Holder,  not 
thaf  I  pretend  to  bo  anything  more  than  common — but 
I've  done  a  heap  of  business  in  my  time." 

"It  do  seem  fair  wonderful,  Mrs.  Means,"  said  Mrs. 
Holder,  her  fai>e  lighting  with  an  ugly  oxprtMsion  of 
gratified  malice;  "it  do  be  fair  wonderful,  the  niiiid  you 
have;  but  how '11  I  get  word  to  Miiii?  I  don't  want 
1^3  von  to  know,  of  I'ourse,  and  I  won'^t  go  down  street  with 
My  fiaunting  the  family  shame — and  there  1  be  fair  stuck." 

"  I'm  passing  Muir's  as  1  go  to  the  stovo/*  wUd  Mrs.  Duaim, 
rising.  "  Oh,  no  thanks,  plotiHO ;  \\\\\\\  thank  me.  AVe  nuist 
all  do  what  we  can  to  help  other  folks  along,  you  know,  in 
this  world,  and  I  don't  take  it  no  tioiiltle  to  do  my  sbnrc!." 

"Well,  I  take  it  rare  kindly,"  returned  the  old  wonum. 

"Oh,"  Kaid  her  guest,  pausing,  "J  meant  specially  to  as]i 
you  about  Myron ;  she  was  terrible  late  yesterday  niorll- 
ing.  1  spoke  to  her  about  it,  and  she  upunked  up  dread- 
ful; got  's  red's  fire  and  never  said  a  word.  I  thought  it 
my  duty  to  tell  you,  Mrn.  WiMim^  being  anxious  for  her 
good  and  knowing  you  couldn't  look  after  her,  when  sjie 
was  out  of  your  sight." 


THE   UNTEMPEREi)  WIND 


8i 


"She  was  late  yesterday  morning  in  starting,"  said  Mrs. 
Holder,  "  but  I  bo  fair  ashamed  she  should  show  herself 
like  that  to  you,  after  your  goodness  to  her,  and  bearing 
with  her,  as  you  have  done.  Oh,  Myron  has  her  mother's 
ways — sulky  she  is,  and  close-mouthed."  (Alas!  was  this 
all  the  memory  left  of  Myron  Kind's  gentleness  and  sweet 
patience!)  "  You  can  see  what  I  have  to  put  up  with  day 
in  and  day  out.  Come  here,  My!"  This  to  the  child,  as 
she  saw  him  going  along  the  path. 

"Yes,  you  have  your  own  times,  I'll  warrant," said  Mrs. 
Deans.     "  What  did  you  raU  the  young  one?" 

"My,"  replied  Mrs.  Holder.  "That's  what  she  always 
calls  it,  and  I'm  bound  it's  most  fitting,  being  near  her  own 
name.  I  fair  hate  that  name,  Mrs.  Deans.  Myron's 
mother  took  my  son  away  from  me  and  she  brought  me 
shame;  it's  fit  and  well  to  call  the  brat  that  too." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  you're  right  there,"  agreed  Mrs.  Deans,  at 
once  relieved  and  disappointed;  relieved  that  her  Gamaliel 
was  left  in  undisturbed  possession  of  his  name,  disap- 
pointed that  Myron  Holder  had  not  given  some  more 
\Ufiniie  name  to  her  child — Homer,  for  instance. 

Mi'l*  peans  took  her  way  down  street,  filled  with  right- 
eous 8olf-(!(nigrutulation.  The  scheme  of  debarring  Myron 
Jloldur  from  over  lying  beside  her  falher  seemed  to  ..<!r 
most  admirable.  Doubtless,  from  a  strictly  legal  point  of 
view,  there  might  have  been  difficulties  in  the  way,  but 
who  was  going  to  kll  Myron  that?  Mrs.  Deans  smihid  to 
think  of  My/on's  surprise  wlifiu  sjie  found  out.  Myroii 
Holder  had  never  done  Mrs.  Deans  any  injury,  fnif  tbo 
latter  cherished  against  her  that  Inexplicable  hatred,  tliai 
alien  from  rliyme  or  fea«on,  HOinotimos  f«'/irfi<l)y  /(^stored 
in  ^iie  human  heart.  Thin  feeling,  mature  and  niifvitii- 
chised,  made  the  streets  of  Paris  red  with  blood;  has 
nerved   the   hand  that  hurhid  a  bomb;  lias  steadied  the 


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THE    UNTEMPKRED  IV/A'D 


aim  of  the  assassin  aiul,  developed  by  heredity  and  in- 
dulged by  training  and  opportunity,  has  made  the  Thugs 
a  people.  To  inflict  what  others  endure  with  pain  is  their 
life. 

Half-way  down  the  street  Mrs.  Deans  paused  before  a 
door  overshadowed  by  a  green  painted  veranda,  supported 
by  spindling  posts;  upon  each  side  of  the  door  was  a  win- 
dow. In  one  was  displayed  a  mortuary  wreath,  made  of 
white  stucco  flowers  and  a  star  formed  of  six  nickel-plated 
cottiu-plates,  tastefully  disposed  against  a  black  back- 
ground, the  same  being  the  beaver  covering  stripped  from 
one  of  Mr.  Muir's  defunct  tall  bats.  In  the  other  window 
was  idaced  a  small  coffin.  This  cheerful  display  was 
intended  to  indicate  that  the  Jamestown  undertaker  was 
to  be  found  within. 

As  Mrs.  Deans  entered  a  A\  hnng  over  the  top  of  the 
door  rang,  and  as  its  note  died  away  in  a  harsh  tinkle 
steps  began  to  come  from  the  rear  of  the  shop — slow,  sol- 
emn footsteps,  the  echo  of  one  dying  away  before  the 
other  succeeded  it,  which  gave  a  sepulchral  effect  to  the 
tread  of  Mr.  Muir.  They  were  indeed  a  fitting  herald  of 
the  little  undertaker's  appearance,  Avhicli  distinctly  sug- 
gested his  vocation. 

He  was  short  and  broad,  without  being  in  the  least 
stout.  He  had  a  sandy  colored  beard,  so  shaggy  as  to  be 
almost  woolly,  and  which  he  wore  parted  in  the  middle 
and  brushed  on  either  side  into  the  semblance  of  a  gigan- 
tic Dundreary.  He  wore  habitually  a  broadcloth  suit,  and 
of  these  he  had  always  three,  one  in  the  last  stages  of 
dilapidation  that  he  wore  when  doing  his  "  chores"  in  the 
morning,  attending  to  his  two  spare-ribbed  black  horses, 
oiling  the  wheels  of  the  hearse,  etc. ;  another  he  wore  when 
he  "kept  shop,"  and  when  attending  to  the  private 
offices  of  his  profession;   the  third  was  the  holiest,  and 


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THE    rNTEMl\:RF.D   IVJXJ) 


83 


reserved  for  his  public  fiiiu;tioiis  tit  tiie  fuiu*nils.  The  suit 
always  cousisted  of  a  frock  coat,  which  fell  below  his  knees 
and  hung  around  hint  in  folds;  a  waistcoat  buttoned  up 
to  the  nock,  and  a  pair  of  trousers  that  were  always  too 
short,  but  which  made  up  in  width  for  that  deficiency. 
An  odd  little  bir  I  of  ill-onicn  he  was.  His  face  was  sot- 
tied  into  an  expression  of  unalleviated  gldnm;  his  features 
had  assumed  an  attitude  of  mournful  resignation.  From 
this  funereal  coui  tonauce  his  eyes  shone  forth  strangely — 
little  bright  eyes,  keen  and  acquisitive. 

He  advanced,  rubbing  his  hands  slowly  together. 
"Mrs.  Deans,"  he  said,  and  bo w(l.  ^ 

This  bow  was  an  acquir'  lent  much  thought  (tf  in 
Jamestown.  What  more  palliating  to  bereaved  feelings 
than  to  behold  Mr.  Muir,  in  all  the  black  glory  of  grief, 
ushering  in  the  funeral  guests  with  a  succession  of  these 
bows!  lie  had  a  clever  knack  of  including  the  "remains" 
in  each  of  these  genuflections,  which  were  always  per- 
formed at  the  door  of  the  room  where  the  dead  lay.  llis 
appearance  upon  those  official  occur  ions  was  little  less  than 
sublime;  the  way  in  which  he  removed  his  tall  hat  from 
his  head  was  in  itself  a  poem — hardly  ostentatious,  yet 
most  impressive — exalting  the  act  to  a  ceremonial  and 
dignifying  the  performance  unspeakably. 

Mrs.  Deans  never  cared  much  for  Mr.  Muir.  The  little 
man's  eye  held  a  certain  proprietary  look  that  chilled  one's 
blood;  it  was  as  though  he  viewed  one  in  the  light  of 
prospective  "  remains" — as  who  should  say,  "  Go  your  way  . 
in  your  own  fashion  noiv;  some  day  you  will  go  my  way  in 
my  fashion."  A  tape-line  always  showed  itself  from  one  of 
his  pockets,  and  this  in  itself  brought  as  ^rewsome  a  sug- 
gestion as  any  one  cared  to  contemplate. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Muir?"  said  Mrs.  Deans.  "  How  d'ye 
do?    How's  the  world  treating  you  these  days?" 


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THE    UNTEMPEiRRD  WIND 


"Oh,  well,  very  well,"  replied  Mi.  Mtiir  solemnly,  still 
rubbing  his  hands  together;  then  lie  nodded  towards  the 
rear  of  the  shop:  "AVill  you  go  in?"  he  asked.  This  was 
Mr.  Muir's  way  of  inviting  customers  to  inspect  the 
coffins. 

"No,  not  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Deans  hastily.  "I  haven't 
called  about  any  work  for  you,  Mr.  Muir,  but  on 
business." 

Mr.  Muir  looked  puzzled,  the  terms  evidently  bearing 
some  relation  to  each  other  in  his  estimation. 

"  It's  for  old  Mrs.  Holder,"  went  on  Mrs.  Deans. 

"  If  it's  to  do  any  burying  for  her,  I  won't  do  it  unless 
the  council  guarantees  it,"  interrupted  Mr.  Muir,  with 
decision.  "Here  I  have  waited  and  waited  for  Jed's 
money,  and  only  got  the  last  of  it  last  week — got  it  by  fifty 
centses.  It  ain't  satisfying,  getting  a  bill  in  fifty-cent 
pieces;  it  ain't  business.  They  get  the  coffin  in  a  lump; 
they  ought  to  pay  in  a  lump.  No,  I  can't  do  it,  Mrs. 
Deans,  not  meaning  to  disoblige  you,  though;  and  I  hope 
you  won't  hold  it  against  me  and  keep  back  the  favor  of 
your  business.  Of  course  doing  for  you  and  doing  for  such 
as  Holders  is  two  stories.  Now,  for  you  or  your  husband, 
something  more  after  the  style  of  General " 

Mrs  Deans  broke  in  hastily.  Once  upon  a  time,  Mr. 
Muir  had  travelled  seven  hundred  miles  to  see  the  funeral 
of  a  great  general.  That  funeral  was  to  Mr.  Muir  what  a 
visit  to  Eonie  is  to  an  artist;  and  his  description  of  it  was 
a  story  to  outlast  the  passing  of  the  pageant  it  pictured. 
All  Jamestown  knew  the  story,  and  Mrs.  Deans  felt  that 
prompt  action  alone  could  save  her. 

"It  don't  concern  burying  people  at  all,  Mr.  Muir,  but 
burying  ground."  Mrs.  Deans  gurgled  over  her  own  joke. 
"  And  I'll  just  tell  you  about  it,  if  you'll  wait  a  minute. 
You   see,"  looking    confidential,   "it's    like    this;    Mrs. 


I 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


85 


Ilokler  takes  it  terrible  hard  about  Myron's  goings-on,  and 
when  she  dies  she  can't  bear  to  think  her  and  her  young 
one  is  going  to  be  put  right  a- touching  her,  as  you  may 
say,  which  ain't  to  be  wondered  at  wiien  one  considers  the 
importance  of  the  thing."  Mrs.  Deans  paused  for  breath 
and  to  give  this  time  to  have  due  effect  upon  Mr.  Muir, 
who  was  once  known  to  complain  because  peojile  spent 
more  on  marrying  than  on  burying. 

Mr.  Muir  nodded  his  approval,  and  Mrs.  Deans  continued : 

"  That  being  the  case,  Mr.  Muir,  as  I  said,  it  ain't  to 
be  wondered  at  that  Mrs.  Holder  is  uneasy  and  wants  to 
fix  it  so  she  'n'  her  son'll  be  undisturbed.  So,  having  asked 
me  about  the  matter,  I  siggested  to  her  that  you  could 
fix  it,  if  any  one  could ;  and  so  she  wants  you  to  call  up  to 
see  her,  because  she  can't  leave  My,  aiid  she  won't  bring 
him  out." 

"Who's  My?"  asked  Mr.  Muir. 

"  Why,  that's  the  young  one!  Didn't  you  know? 
That's  more  of  Myron  Holder's  slyness.  But  pshaw! 
What's  the  use  of  talking?  Them  kind's  all  alike.  But 
fancy  naming  it  after  herself!  Well,  as  I  said,  old  Mrs. 
Holder,  she  wanted  you  should  come  up  to  see  her  and 
make  a  trade.  Now,  I  hope  you'll  go,  Mr.  Muir,  being 
as  I  specially  siggested  t'  her  that  you  could  help  her  out." 

"I'll  go,  Mrs.  Deans;  I'll  go,"  said  Mr.  Muir.  "Think 
I'll  just  slip  up  by  White's  and  see  the  lot  first;  nigh- 
hand  to  Warner's,  ain't  it?" 

"  Yes,  nigh  close  to  old  man  Warner's,  which  was  filled 
when  Ann  Eliza  was  buried.  Mr.  White  did  say  that  Ann 
Eliza  overlapped  his  lot.  But  there!  it  doesn't  do  to  say 
them  things;  it  ain't  me  to  spread  talk.  She  had  a  queer 
look,  though,  Ann  Eliza  did  when  she  was  laid  out,  hadn't 
she,  Mr.  Muir?"  Here  Mrs.  Deans  nodded  Avith  much 
minister  meaning  at  Mr.  Muir, 


A-Sii 


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86 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


"  Yes,  a  very  wretched-looking  body  she  made.  I  like  to 
see  a  cheerful-looking  corpse ;  something  more  after  the 
style  of  Jed  Holder.  Now,  when  ho  was  ready,  he  was  a 
real  credit  to  me,  though  his  pay  was  onsatisfactory — 
very  onsatisf actory. " 

"  Yes,  Jed  did  smooth  out  most  wonderful,"  agreed  Mrs. 
Deans.  "Then  you'll  go  up  to  Mrs.  Holder's?  Better  go 
soon,  Mr.  Muir;  old  Warner'll  be  after  more  lots  some  of 
these  days." 

"Yes,  without  a  doubt,  Mrs  Deans,"  said  Mr.  Muir. 
Mrs.  Deans  pulled  the  door  open,  again  the  harsh  bell  rang, 
and  she  heard  its  d}'ing  tinkle  through  Mr.  Muir's  fare- 
wells, for  he  came  outside  the  door  with  her,  and  after  she 
betook  herself  down  the  street,  he  still  lingered,  gloating 
critically  over  the  arrangement  of  the  colhn-plates  in  his 
window. 

Mrs.  Deans  proceeded  down  the  street,  and  soon  reached 
the  store.  As  she  paused  at  the  store  door,  she  looked 
back  and  saw  the  undertaker  just  entering  his  shop. 

"He'll  never  handle  any  job  for  me,"  Mrs.  Deans  said, 
recalling  the  rudeness  of  his  interruption  during  their 
conversation.     "  I'll  get  Foster  from  Ovid  for  Henry." 

She  entered  the  store,  purchased  her  dyestuffs  quickly, 
and  then,  all  business  cares  off  her  mind,  set  her  face 
steadfastly  to  go  to  Mrs.  Wilson's. 

Now,  Mrs.  Deans  was  extremely  eager  to  find  out  if  Mrs. 
Wilson's  anxiety  about  the  naming  of  Myron  Holder's 
child  sprang  from  any  knowledge  or  suspicion  of  the 
boy's  parentage.  As  she  trod  heavily  along  the  sandy 
^'ootpath  to  the  Wilson  farm,  she  turned  the  matter  over 
in  her  mind  and  considered  the  best  means  of  getting  at 
the  truth,  or  at  least  all  Mrs.  Wilson  knpw  j_  it,.  Gossip 
is  something  more,  perhaps,  thr.a  a  vulf_,ar  propensity — 
there  is  art  in  it,  as  in  everything  else.     There  are  several 


1 


II 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   IVIXD 


87 


ways  of  inducing  others  to  talk  freely  of  their  aifairs. 
Mrs.  Deans  thoroughly  appreciated  the  distinctions 
between  the  methods.  One  way  which  Mrs.  Deans  had 
found  very  eilective  in  some  cases  is  to  assume  high 
ground;  treat  the  discussion  with  the  careless  condescen- 
sion of  one  to  whom  it  is  an  old  story ;  acknowledge  every 
tid-bit  of  information  with  a  nod  signifying  thorough 
acquaintance  with  the  whole  matter;  the  victim,  often- 
times irritated  by  your  show  of  superior  knowledge,  goes 
on  supplying  detail  after  detail,  in  the  hope  of  startling 
you  out  of  your  apathy.  This  plan  has  however,  as  Mrs. 
Deans  knew,  been  known  to  miss  fire,  and  when  it  fails,  it 
fails  completely.     She  hesitated  to  try  it  with  Mrs.  Wilson. 

Another  very  seductive  plan  is  to  assume  an  air  of  great 
meekness  and  draw  your  subject  out  by  seeming  to 
believe  she  knows  all  about  the  mooted  question — whilst 
lowly  you  know  nothing.  Few  women  can  resist  this — 
the  desire  to  flaunt  the  knowledge  imputed  to  them  is  too 
strong  to  be  denied. 

Mrs.  Deans  slowly  entered  the  Wilson  gate.  The  path 
from  the  road  led  up  to  the  house  between  two  rows  of 
large  stones,  placed  at  regular  intervals  from  each  other, 
upon  the  grass  at  the  side  of  the  path.  These  stones  were 
whitewashed  every  now  and  then  by  Mrs.  Wilson,  and 
were  considered  to  give  quite  an  "  air"  to  the  place.  The 
spring  house-cleaning  being  just  over,  they  shone  daz- 
zlingly  white  from  afresh  coat;  their  ranks  were  broken 
half-way  up  to  the  house  by  two  small  "rockeries,"  over 
which  grew  "Live  Forever,"  "Old  Man,"  "Winter  Ver- 
bena," and  "Lemon  Balm;"  they  were  each  crowned  by  a 
geranium,  the  one  a  sweet-scented  one,  the  other  a  single 
scarlet.  Close  to  the  house  grew  two  plum  trees,  one  on 
each  side  of  the  path.  From  the  branches  of  one  was 
suspended  a  hanging-basket  made  out  of  half  of  a  cocoa- 


1 : 


\l 


iMt- 


88 


rill':    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


iiut-slicll,  ill  which  grew  "  Creeping  Charlie,"  whilst  the 
other  tree  was  adorned  by  a  tin  pan  filled  with  the  luxuri- 
antly-growing jointed  stems  of  the  "Wandering  Jew." 
On  each  side  of  the  steps — for  Mrs.  "Wilson  was  fond  of 
uniformity — stood  a  brown  shilling  crock,  one  almost 
hidden  beneath  a  green  mat  of  a  trailing  vine  called 
"Jacob's  Ladder,"  the  other  holding  an  upright  and 
sturdy  "Jerusalem  Cherry  Tree"  (known  to  unimaginative 
botanists  as  Solanum),  around  whose  roots  were  appearing 
the  tiny  rosettes  of  portulaca  seedlings. 

Mrs.  Deans  noted  these  things  not  altogether  approv- 
ingly, Marian  Wilson  being  in  her  estimation  somewhat 
perilously  given  up  to  vanities. 

Her  knock  brought  a  speedy  answer  in  the  person  of 
Mrs.  Wilson.  "Well,  Jane,"  she  ejaculated,  "come  right 
in.  I  was  jest  expectin'  you  some  of  these  days;  come 
right  into  the  setting  room  and  lay  off  your  things,  and 
we'll  visit  together  foj  a  spell." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  come  to  stop,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  suffering 
herself  to  be  led  into  the  sitting-roo.n.  "I  ain't  come  to 
stop,  only  as  I  was  just  at  the  store  for  dye,  I  thought  I'd 
come  on  and  see  you." 

"You  done  right,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson;  "you  done  right 
there,  and  I'm  real  glad  you've  come.  Got  your  rags  all 
sewed?" 

"Yes,  forty-two  pounds,"  replied  Mrs.  Deans,  who  all 
this  time  had  been  mechanically  untying  her  bonnet- 
strings  and  affecting  to  be  oblivious  of  the  actions  of  Mrs. 
Wilson,  who  was  unpinning  her  shawl.  Presently,  the 
bonnet-strings  being  unloosened,  Mrs.  AVilson  dexterously 
switched  away  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  said  triumphantly: 

"Now,  Jane,  come  and  set  down."  Then,  and  not  till 
then,  Mrs.  Deans  awoke  with  a  start  to  the  fact  that  her  out- 
^ocr  garb  had  been  removed. 


f 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


89 


• 


1 


"Why,  Marian,  I  declare,"  she  said,  "  you  do  beat  all !" 

Having  siiifered  herself  to  be  led  to  and  installed  in  a 
rocking-chair,  Mrs.  Deans  settled  herself  comfortably  for 
a  talk. 

"What  colors  are  you  going  to  dye,  Jane?"  asked  Mrs. 
Wilson. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  checking  off  the  list  on  her 
fingers,  "I've  got  hickory  bark  for  yellow,  and  walnut 
shucks  that  I  saved  last  fall  for  brown,  and  barberry  stems 
to  mix  with  bluing  for  green;  and  I've  bought  red  and 
magenta  and  blue,  and  I  was  thinking  that,  being  as  I 
didn't  want  much  color,  that  would  be  enough." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wilsjn,  "I  never  care  for  a  carpet 
that  is  just  a  mess  of  colored  rags.  I  like  a  good  deal  of 
yellow,  though.  I  seen  one  in  the  market  the  othe^  day; 
a  woman  from  Ovid  had  it  for  sale,  and  it  was  real  neat- 
looking.  It  had  a  brier  twist  of  yellow  and  black  in  tho 
middle  of  the  pattern,  and  a  stripe  of  red  at  each  side; 
then  there  was  a  wide  piece  of  purple  and  a  narrow  stripe 
of  green;  the  filling  up  was  mixed,  with  a  lot  of  blue  in 
it,  and  she  had  it  wove  with  red  warp." 

"I  didn't  get  any  purple,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  "but  I 
might  get  it " 

"  Say,  wouldn't  red  and  blue  mix  for  purple?"  asked 
Mrs.  Wilson. 

"  Why,  I  don't  know  but  they  would !  Where  did  she 
have  hers  wove?" 

"Up  to  Skinner's  at  the  Pinewoods,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson. 
"They  do  say  the  Skinneises  keeps  back  the  rags  andheli')s 
themselves  to  the  warp ;  but  the  way  I  do  is  to  weigh  the 
warp  and  the  rags,  and  then  when  I  get  the  carpet'  back  I 
weigh  that." 

"  A  very  good  way,  too,"  agreed  Mrs.  Deans.  "  I'd  like  to 
see  the  carpet-weaver  that  would  cheat  me!" 


i^ 


i  . 


m 


i  ' 


i 


\ 


90 


T//E    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


"Have  to  get  up  early  in  the  morning,  ch,  Jane?"  said 
Mrs.  Wilson,  approvingly. 

"Yes,  earlier  than  before  night,"  chuckled  Mrs. 
Deans.     "  Suppose  you  heard  Dan  Follett  was  gone?" 

"  Yes,  Homer  seen  the  funeral;  'twas  a  most  terrible  big 
one,  and  nothing  would  do  Homer  but  he  must  follow  on 
with  it  to  the  cemetery.  It  do  seem  hard  to  think  how 
one's  son'll  go  on  doing  sich  things.  The  idea!"  Mrs.  Wil- 
son concluded  between  a  sniff  and  a  snort. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  sympatheMcally.  "  Well,  there's 
one  good  thing,  no  one  would  hold  you  responsible  for 
Homer's  doings  now.  I  tell  you  when  men  gets  his  age, 
they're  bound  to  go  their  own  wa3'S."  Then  abruptly,  "I 
was  at  Mrs.  Holder's  to-day."  Here  Mrs.  Deans  looked  full 
at  Mrs.  Wilson. 

"You  was?"  said  her  hostess.  "You  was?  Who  did  you 
see?" 

**I  seen  old  Mrs.  Holder  and  the  young  one;  it's 
named " 

"What?"  asked  Mrs.  Wilson,  breathlessly. 

"Well,  you'd  never  guess,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  mali- 
ciously prolonging  her  hostess'  agony.  "You'd  never 
guess.  I'm  sure  I  never  suspicioned  she'd  call  it  that.  I 
suppose  it's  fitting,  most  fitting,  I  should  say — but  there! 
What's  the  odds  what  it's  called?  I  wouldn't  let  it  worry 
me,  no  matter  what  she  called  it." 

"What  is  its  name,  Jane?"  asked  Mrs.  Wilson,  with 
such  directness  that  Mrs.  Deans  could  not  disregard  it. 

"  My,"  answered  she,  "  My — short  for  Myron." 

"Well,  Jane,"  gasped  Mrs.  Wilson,  in  relief,  and  affect- 
ing tiiat  her  exclamation  was  one  of  surprise;  "well,  it 
beats  all!" 

Mrs.  Deans  felt  satisfied  on  one  poiiu  Mrs.  Wilson  had 
certainly  liad  grave  fears  in  regard  to  the  naming  of  the 


\ 


f 


THE    VNTEMPEKI  D   WIND 


91 


\ 


r 


cliild — too  gnivo  to  be  causeless,  Mrs.  Pi  ims  assured  her- 
self. Well,  Mrs.  Deuns  had  never  thought  much  ot 
Homer  Wilson — ho  was  altogether  too  conceited,  and  he 
never  spoke  in  revival  meeting  any  more  than  that  once; 
and  he  was  too  sure  of  himself,  and  too  independent.  80 
it  was  Homer  Wilson,  then!  AVhy  hadn't  ho  married  her? 
AVhy  hadn't  Myron  told?  Now,  if  she — Mrs.  Deans — 
could  only  expose  the  two  of  them,  how  meritorious  that 
would  he!  A  hazy  plan  to  attack  Homer  on  the  question 
flitted  through  her  brain;  to  ask  him  sudderdy,  wIkmi  he 
was  unprejiared,  point-l)lank — would  that  startle  him  into 
a  confession  or  a  betrayal  of  the  truth  in  spite  of  himself? 

Mrs.  Deans  and  ]\Irs.  Wilson  talked  the  afternoon  awny, 
peaceably  and  amicably,  and  in  the  twilight  !Mrs.  Deans 
went  home.  She  met  Myron  half  way  to  the  village  and 
stopped  her. 

"  I  been  into  see  your  grandmother  to-day,"  she  said. 
"I  wonder  at  you,  Myron  Holder,  that  you  ain't  ashamed 
to  show  your  face;  she's  failing  fast,  your  grandmother  is, 
aiul  no  wonder!  Well,  I  wouldn't  have  your  conscience 
for  something.  Poor  old  woman,  slaving  herself  to  death 
over  a  young  one  like  that  But  you'll  be  found  out  yet, 
]\ryron  Holder;  and  when  you  do,  don't  look  to  me,  think- 
ing I'll  back  you  up,  for  I  won't;  the  time  for  that's  past, 
unless  you  want  to  take  yonr  last  chance  and  own  u^)  the 
whole  of  it  now."  Mrs.  Deans  paused — her  very  attitude 
an  interrogation. 

"Good-night,  Mrs.  Deans,."  said  Myron,  in  her  soft 
English  voice,  and  passed  on  with  down-bent  head. 

Mrs.  Deans  stood  for  quite  a  minute  amazed,  looking 
after  the  quiet  form  going  wearily  into  the  dusk  of  the 
gathering  night— to  be  left  thus  was  a  trifle  too  much. 
"I'll  take  it  out  of  her  for  that!"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  flush- 
ing with  wrath.    "  I'll  let  her  know  what's  what,  or  my 


r«.,: 


92 


THE    UN  TEMPER  ED   WIND 


name  ain't  Deans.  Tlio  idea !  Slie'll  walk  oiT  and  leave  me 
staiuling  talking  to  her,  will  she?     AVell, " 

Mrs.  Deans  resumed  her  irate  way.  Myion  Holder  held 
on  her  path  to  the  village.  She  was  numb  alike  in  mind 
and  body;  the  accumulated  weariness  of  days  of  toil  and 
nights  of  painful  thought  pressed  upon  her;  it  was  mar- 
vellous how  she  endured  the  fatigues  of  her  life  without 
breaking  down  physically.  "  As  thy  days  so  shall  thy 
strength  bo!"  has  hidden  a  germ  of  bane  as  well  as  bless- 
ing. Does  it  not  often  seem  as  if  sorrow  imbued  life 
witli  its  own  bitter  tenacity?  Wfis  ever  such  a  fearful 
doom  j)ictured  as  that  of  the  Eternal  AVanderer  "mocked 
with  the  curac  of  immortality"? 

So  Myron  Holder  went  home  in  the  twilight,  and  Mrs. 
Deans  went  home  revolving  fresh  schemes  for  her  humilia- 
tion, inventing  new  burdens  for  her  overtaxed  shoulders. 
"  Ciod,"  they  say,  "  builds  the  nest  of  ihe  blind  bird."  Is  it 
man  who  lines  it  with  thorns? 


CHAPTER  IX. 


"A  sleepy  land,  where  under  the  same  wheel, 
The  same  old  rut  would  deepen  year  by  year.  " 

"A  life  of  nothings — nothing  worth 
From  that  first  nothing  ere  his  birth 
To  that  last  nothing  under  earth.  " 

The  Jamestown  people,  in  making  a  pariah  of  Myron 
Holder,  were  not  urged  to  the  step  by  any  imperative 
feeling  of  hurt  honor  or  pained  surprise. 

Such  faults  as  hers  were  not  uncommon  there;  but  never 
before  had  the  odium  rested  upon  one  only.  Besides, 
there  had  always  been  some  "goings  on"  and  some  "talk" 


\ 

y 


\ 


\ 


\ 


THE    UN  TEMPER  ED  WIND 


93 


indicative  of  the  ufTair.  In  Myron  Holder's  case,  tlio 
Jiuneatowu  people  hud  been  ciii;ght  napping.  In  smdi 
cases  a  marriage  and  reinstatement  into  public  favor  was 
the  usual  sequel,  arrived  at  after  much  exhilarating  and 
spicy  gossip,  much  enjoya'hle  sjieculation,  nnich  mediation 
upon  the  part  of  the  matrons,  and  niuch  congratulation 
that  all  had  ended  so  well. 

For  another  thing,  Myron  Holder  was  an  outsider,  and 
there  was  no  danger  that  u  word  si)oken  against  her  would 
provoke  any  one  else  to  anger.  The  Jamestown  people 
were  all  the  descendants  of  some  half-dozen  families,  the 
original  settlers  of  the  country.  They  had  stagnated 
year  after  year,  generation  after  generation  nuirrying  and 
intermarrying.  The  Jamestown  people  of  Myron  Holder's 
day  bore  a  strange  resemblance  to  one  another.  The 
descendants  of  the  same  families,  subjected  to  the  same 
mental  influences,  the  same  conditions  of  life,  the  same 
climate,  the  same  religion — it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  every  prominent  or  indi\idnalized  feature  of  mind 
and  body  had  been  obliterated  and  averaged  down  to  a 
commonplace  uniformity. 

Distinct  physical  types  were  rare  here,  very  dark  or  very 
fair  people  being  seldom  seen.  The  iPeatures  were  coarse 
and  ill-defined,  the  nostrils  merging  into  the  cheeks,  the 
chins  into  the  necks,  the  pale  lips  into  the  dull-colored 
faces,  with  no  clear  line  of  demarcation,  no  pure  curve  to 
define  form. 

Certain  peculiarities  appertained  to  certain  families, 
however.  When  one  of  the  few — very  few — Jamestown 
men  who  had  gone  forth  to  the  outside  world  returned, 
he  had  not  much  difficulty  in  approximating  at  least  the 
parentage  of  the  children  he  encountered  in  the  streets; 
for  one  had  the  Deans  nose,  a  pinched-in,  miserly,  censo- 
rious feature,  given  to  the  smelling  out  of  scandal ;  another 


r 


I 


'#:, 


T 


04 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


luul  the  Warner  walk,  a  gait  tluit  in  a  horse  wonhl  be 
termed  nicking;  a  third  iniglit  have  the  Wilson  scowl,  a 
l)eculiar  expression  that  seemed  to  emanate  from  sulkiness ;  a 
fourth  was  evidently  a  scion  of  the  Disney  stock,  for  ho 
gazed  out  of  the  Disney  eyes,  always  rheumy  and  without 
lashes. 

There  appeared  in  Jamestown  families  every  now  and 
then  an  imbecile,  presenting,  as  in  a  terrible  composite 
l)icture,  the  mental  and  moral  weaknesses  of  his  related 
ancestors. 

Nearly  every  family  counted,  in  some  of  its  branches, 
one  or  more  of  these  unfortunates. 

Jamestown's  attitude  towards  these  maimed  souls  was 
characteristically  utilitarian;  they  were  fed  and  clothed 
until  they  arrived  at  an  age  when,  if  they  were' harmless, 
they  became  useful,  or  if  they  were  violent,  their  mania 
became  dangerous.  In  the  former  case  they  were  given  a 
full  quota  of  work,  and  kept  out  of  sight  so  far  as  possible, 
toiling  early  and  late,  horrible  brownies,  working  unseen, 
unpaid,  unthanked,  unpitied.  If  they  were  violent,  they 
were  sent  as  paupers  to  the  governmental  institutions  and 
forgotten. 

Jamestown  was  stirred  by  no  noble  ambition,  thrilled 
by  no  eager  hope,  excited  by  no  generous  impulse, 
moved  by  no  patriotic  enthusiasm,  undisturbed  by  visions, 
unmoved  by  wars, — craved  neither  glory  nor  fame — 

"  Though  fame  is  smoke, 
Its  fumes  are  frankincense  to  human  thought.  " 

And  how  poor  a  pot?herd  the  human  temple  is,  when  sav- 
ored with  no  incense  of  endeavor!  Better  the  bitter 
breath  of  failure  than  the  dank  vapor  of  stagnating  facul- 
ties. The  haloes  of  defeated  effort  are  sweeter  than  the 
lotus  of  inaction. 


: 


I 


.,;t-**n  iS'Wia.-^arefc  iaE.'-  v  viaaaawar 


T 


: 


THE    UNrEMPERI'in   U'lXD 


95 


Jamestown 'a  religion?  If  tho  (Jod  of  'vvlioni  preachera 
jjiato  so  familiarly  really  exists,  witli  what  awful  scorn 
must  y/c  behold  siieli  worship!  As  monkeys,  mowing  anil 
moping,  might  mock  a  pageant,  so  did  theso  i)eople  simu- 
late religion.  Old  Eliza — Mrs.  Wilson's  mad  cousin — 
worshipped  better  when  she  dabbled  her  liands  in  the  way- 
side horse-trough,  rejoicing  in  its  coolness;  when  she 
smoothed  with  tender  fingers  the  torn  fur  of  a  half-shot 
rabbit;  when  she  replaced  the  unlledged  birds  in  the  nest 
from  which  they  had  fallen — nay,  even  when  she  sped 
across  the  sunlit  fields,  lier  sodden  face  irradiate  with  an 
inarticulate  feeling  of  the  warmth  and  freedom  of  the  air. 

Nature  spread  about  and  before  theso  people  all  her 
beauties,  unfolded  to  their  gaze  all  the  enchantment  of 
her  seasons,  but  in  vain;  their  eyes  were  darkened,  their 
hearts  hardened;  the  magical  mystery  of  Spring  left  them 
ineloquent;  Summer  came  and  lingered,  and  went  reluc- 
tantly; Autumn  browned,  and  Winter  fulfilled  its  bitter- 
ness, and  they  were  unmoved  save  by  the  eifect  upon  the 
crops. 

The  site  of  Jamestown  and  the  country  surrounding  it 
was  historic  ground.  Here  nen  had  fought  and  bled  and 
died.  The  fathers  and  mothers  *  "  the  presant  generation 
told  how,  when  children,  they  had  oen  hurried  off  to  the 
woods,  to  hide  there  whilst  the  sold,  rs  ransacked  the  de- 
serted houses,  eating  and  appropriating  all  they  fancied, 
and  spitefully  spilling  milk,  wantonly  cutting  holes  in  the 
cheeses,  and  throwing  the  frying-pans  and  flatirons  down 
the  wells  for  mischief.  These  leisurely  warriors  were  not, 
however,  the  ones  whose  blood  had  darkened  the  soil  in  so 
many  adjacent  spots.  The  Jamestown  people  had  no  per- 
sonal reminiscences  or  knowledge  of  these  sterner  fighters, 
but  evidences  of  their  existence  and  warfare  were  plentiful. 

Year  by  year,  the  neighboring  farmers,  in  tilling  their 


iv3 


li 


1  i 


96 


THE    UNTLMPERED  WIND 


land,  found  bullets,  broken  bayonets,  portions  of  old- 
fashioned  guns,  military  buttons,  and  Indian  arrow  heads  of 
flint.  Thc«e  latter  relics  were  often  defaced,  pointless, 
and  chipped,  but  sometimes  they  had  preserved  in  perfec- 
tion tlaeir  venomous  pointed  form,  sharp  to  sting  to  the 
death  when  hurled  through  the  air  from  a  hostile  bow. 
Year  after  year,  these  tokens  of  conflict  were  found  in  the 
fresh  furrc  ';  the  supply  seemed  inexhaustible.  It  was  as 
though  the  earth  was  determined  to  cast  forth  from  her 
bosom  those  deadly  fr  ^irients  whose  mission  had  been  to 
maim  and  slay  her  children.  Yet  Mother  Earth  is  but  !i 
cruel  stepdame  to  some  of  us,  less  kindly  than  the  bullet, 
more  cruel  than  the  flint  arrowhead. 

The  people  in  Jamestown  thought  little  enough  of  these 
relics,  though  in  springtime  they  were  to  be  found  in  the 
pockets  of  every  ploughman;  but  little  Bing  White  had  a 
collection  of  some  hundreds  of  them.  They  had  a  strange 
fascination  for  the  little  elfish  boy.  People  said  he  had 
just  escaped  being  an  idiot:  that  was  far  from  the  truth. 

A  keen  and  acute  intelligence  shone  from  his  eyes,  but 
perverted  by  morbid  and  horrible  cravings.  lie  was  of  a 
Newtonian  and  speculative  turn  of  mind  also,  and  was  per- 
petually pondering  upon  problems  of  weighty  import,  sug- 
gested to  him  by  the  simplest  manifestations  of  every-day 
life:  Why  dogs  barked  at  bakers?  Why  blacksmith-shops 
were  never  new?  Why  buttered  bread  falls  butter-side 
down?  were  questions  that  he  strove  with.  The  wonder 
of  the  arrowheads  appearing  year  after  year  in  the  furrows 
was  to  him  a  source  of  never-ceasing  thought.  How  was  it 
they  came  to  the  surface?  What  strange  grinding  went 
on  below  the  grain  and  the  grass,  to  produce  that  flinty 
grist  each  springtime?  Ke  brooded  much  over  the  mat- 
ter, turning  his  many  specimens  over  and  over  with  iinger- 
ing,  affectionate  touches. 


d\ 


\ 


1 


! 

1 


THE   UNTEMPEREb  WIND 


97 


Bing  kept  liIs  treasures  in  the  space  between  the  lath 
aud  plaster  of  tlie  secoml  story  and  tlie  roof  of  his  father's 
house.  There  wjis  no  room  for  garrets  there — hut  there 
was  a  space  in  whicli  Bing's  diminutive  figure  could 
stand  erect.  The  ingress  to  this  long,  low,  dark  chamher 
was  through  a  tiny  trap-door,  in  the  ceiling  of  one  of  the 
back  rooms.  Through  this,  he  would  wriggle  swiftly, 
replace  the  trap-door  (in  reality  only  a  broad  board),  speed 
like  a  cat  from  joist  to  joist  across  the  whole  lengtli  of 
the  house  to  where,  through  the  round  panes  of  the  little 
gable  window,  the  light  fell  full  upon  his  collection,  laid 
out  in  rows  upon  boards  placed  across  the  joists. 

Each  arrowhead  of  the  lot  had  an  individuality  for  this 
boy ;  every  misshapen  fragment  a  story.  Indeed  he  dwelt 
longer  over  the  pointless  and  defaced  specimens  than  over 
the  others,  for  more  fascinating  than  any  perfection  of 
curve  or  point  was  the  speculation  as  to  ^vliere  the  frag- 
ments of  the  broken  ones  rested.  Could  it  be  possible  tiiat 
the  long  tapering  point  of  the  arrowhead  he  held  in  his 
band  had  pierced  some  red-clad  bosom,  some  dusky  naked 
breast  brought  low,  some  hclmeted  head,  some  feather- 
decked  crown,  and  won  a  costly  coffin  for  itself  to  be 
buried  in?  Those  notches  on  the  side  of  the  heavy  white 
flint  one,  were  they  the  scars  of  a  conflict  between  the 
arrow  and  armor? 

Bing  White  was  not  an  imbecile,  but  he  had  strange  fan- 
cies in  that  dusky  treasure  chamber  of  his,  gloating  over 
his  arrowheads,  whispering  to  himself  of  l.^ody  deeds 
wrought  and  cruel  blows  deal  by  these  flints  he  held  in 
his  palms. 

There   was    one  long,   narrow    arrowhead,  sharp    and 

keen-edged,  that  he  had  a  great  affection  for.     He  used 

to  take  it  up  lovingly  and,  baring  his  forearm,  draw  it 

lightly — lightly — close  to  the  skin,  his  eyes  dilating,  his 

7 


» 


"^^ 


f 


98 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


nostrils  quivering;  now  and  then,  his  hanrt  faltering,  he 
let  it  touch  the  flesh,  and  the  keen  edge  swiftly  brought 
blood. 

At  the  pain  he  would  drop  the  flint,  but  at  the  crim- 
son drops  which  showed  its  bite  he  would  gaze  hun- 
grily, delightedly,  tracing  them  out  in  tiny  red  lines  upon 
the  white  flesh  of  his  meagre  arm  until  the  last  vestige 
had  disappeared ;  and  then  he  would  start  and  tremble, 
his  fingers  twitching  strangely,  his  eyes  peering  here  and 
there  through  the  dusky  perspective  of  his  refuge,  as  if 
hoping  to  see  some  blur  of  the  crimson  fluid  he  loved.  Then 
he  would  kiss  the  vicious  arrowhead,  and  fondle  it,  until, 
hearing  his  mother's  call,  he  would  lay  it  down  gently  and 
flee  across  the  joists,  surefooted  and  nimble,  to  the  trap- 
door. 

By  the  time  he  descended  his  face  would  have  lost  the 
wild  irradiation  of  his  hidden  joy;  but  his  eyes  followed 
any  small  creature,  the  cats,  the  chickens,  the  self-satisfied 
ducks.  lie  whispered  to  himself  in  his  dreams  of  a  day 
when  he  would  not  deny  his  desire  for  blood. 

A  strange  impish  development  of  character  was  his: 
daugerous  by  reason  of  the  stubbornness  of  his  race,  and 
strangely  blended  and  nurtured  with  and  by  a  love  of 
vivid  and  bright  color.  This  latter  characteristic  was 
instilled  into  the  White  blood,  when  one  of  the  far-back 
Whites,  who  had  been  to  the  war,  returned,  bringing  with 
him  a  gypsy  camp-follower  as  his  wife,  making  her  the 
great-grandmother  of  this  boy,  who  cherished  the  flint 
arrowheads  for  the  pain  they  could  inflict,  and  who 
dreamt  long  dreams,  the  atmosphere  of  which  was  crim- 
B<  iied  with  blood  and  vocal  with  cries  of  pain. 

This  unhealthy  mental  state  found  for  itself  plenty 
of  sustenance,  as  all  vile  plants  and  animals  do,  sucking 
the  virus  of  its  unhealthy  existence  from  every  phase  of 


4 


i 


I 


1 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


99 


nature,  every  homely  incident  in  village  life,  lie  let  :  o 
chance  escape  him  to  enjoy  his  ghoulish  pleasure;  the  kill- 
ing of  the  poultry  twice  a  week  for  market  was  a  festival 
he  never  missed. 

At  the  village  shambles  he  was  a  frequent  guest;  at 
a  pig-sticking  he  was  always  on  hand,  interested,  help- 
ful; no  scientist  in  a  clinic  ever  watched  with  greater 
enthusiasm  the  performance  of  a  new  exjieriment  than 
did  Bing  White  the  bleeding  of  a  horse — of  all  these 
events  he  had  accurate  information.  If  all  these  failed 
him,  he  sped  far  down  the  margin  of  the  lake,  to  where 
the  gilluets  were,  and  appeased  his  craving  by  watching 
the  slow,  turgid  drops  that  fell  when  they  prepared  the 
fish. 

In  autumn,  when  the  paths  through  the  ample  woods 
were  overhung  with  crimson  canopies  of  leaves,  which  the 
winds  brought  down  like  blots  of  blood  to  be  trodden 
under  foot;  when  the  brambles  clung  red  about  the  fences 
or  trailed  scarlet  along  the  ground;  when  the  bitter-sweet, 
hung  in  vermilion  clusters  from  its  bare  stems,  and  the 
Virginian  creeper  clothed  the  cedars  in  a  fiery  mantle — 
at  this  time  Elng  White's  eyes  were  ever  gleaming  with 
unholy  happiness,  only  no  one  ever  noticed  it. 

It  is  from  such  material  as  this  boy  that  those  morbid 
murderers  are  evolved  who  do  murder  for  murder's  sake. 
Just  where  in  his  ante-natal  historv  the  love  of  color 
flamed  into  a  love  of  blood,  who  shall  say?  But  it  burned 
within  him,  a  consuming  fire;  if  quenched,  to  be  quenched 
only  by  the  annihilation  of  the  being  that  embodie<l  it. 
If  left  to  burn?  .   .  . 

He  had  much  knowledge  of  and  liking  for  animals,  but 
it  was  the  liking  of  the  instinctive  vivisector.  Inexplica- 
ble cases  of  maimed  and  killed  animals  attested  his  devo- 
tion  to  the   gratification  of  his  curiosity.     The  sudden 


3' I 


lit ' 


100 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


elongation  and  apparent  telescoping  of  a  ciyt's  paw  was  a 
subject  that  for  hours  had  kept  him  sleepless. 

He  had  solved  the  riddle  llrst  by  putting  it  down  to  some 
trick  of  his  eyesight,  but  the  keenness  of  his  vision  was 
l)roverbial  in  Jamestown,  and  that  did  not  long  content  him. 
'J'hen  he  took  a  tape-line  and  measured  a  paw,  and  waited  for 
the  stretching  process.  It  came.  The  huge  Maltese 
stretched  out  his  forepaws  in  languorous  indolence.  Bing 
promptly  caught  one  and  began  to  measure ;  the  cat  instantly 
contracted  its  muscles.  Bing  strove  to  hold  the  paw  out  by 
force,  with  the  result  that  the  cat  (which  was  of  the  giant 
order,  and  no  degenerate  descendant  of  its  wild  progeni- 
tors) fixed  its  teeth  through  the  fleshy  j^art  of  his 
thumb,  from  which  it  was  with  difficulty  disengaged. 
The  wound  inflamed  and  festered,  but  the  symptoms  disap- 
peared in  a  week  or  two.     Shortly  after  the  cat  died  in  a  fit. 

The  dilation  and  contraction  of  the  eyes  of  animals  was 
a  source  of  continual  speculation  to  Bing;  a  matter  he 
strove  in  horrid  ways  to  elucidate.  There  was  something 
hideously  repulsive  in  this  boy's  secret  cruelties,  horrible 
to  relate,  sickening  to  contemplate.  But  the  creatures  he 
tormented,  maimed,  killed,  knew  neither  anticipation  nor 
remembrance ;  the  "  corporeal  pang  "  w  as  all. 

There  was  a  strange  and  horrible  parallel  between  his 
nature  and  the  nature  of  the  women  who  tortured  so 
ceaselessly  the  woman  whom  fate  had  made  their  victim; 
a  little  difference  in  method,  a  little  divergence  of  applica- 
tion, a  slight  change  from  the  physical  to  the  mental  world — . 
that  was  all  save  a  dreadful  difference  in  the  victim;  but 
the  instinct  of  cruelty  was  the  same. 

Tliere  is  an  organized  society  in  one  of  our  gfeat  cities 
for  putting  dumb  animals  out  of  pain — out  of  existence. 
It  had  been  well  for  Myron  Holder  had  she  been  one  of 
those  creatures  to  which  a  merciful  death  is  vouchsafed.  The 


} 


i 


i 


tSSU.. 


T 


i 


THE    UN  TEMPER  ED   WIND 


loi 


lilied  purity  of  her  womanliood  hiight  bo  gone,  but  wc  do 
not  rend  tlie  petals  of  even  spent  flowers.  It  is  Imrd  to 
tread  upon  even  a  crushed  blossom,  and  painful  to  see  a 
broken  lily  flung  to  smother  in  a  sewer. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Desolation  is  a  delicate  thing. 

It  walks  not  on  the  earth,  it  floats  not  on  the  air, 
But  treads  with  killing  footsteps,  and  fans  with  silent  wing, 

The  tender  hopes  which  in  their  hearts  the  best  and  gentlest  bear ; 
Who,  soothed  to  false  repose  by  the  fanning  plumes  above, 

And  the  music-stirring  motion  of  its  soft  a;.d  busy  feet, 
Dream  visions  of  aerial  joy,  and  call  the  monster  Love, 

And  wake,  and  find  the  shadow  Pain.  ..." 

"  The  smoke  is  falling,  the  ducks  and  geese  are  flying 
about,  the  maple  leaves  are  turned  underside  up,  the  cocks 
are  crowing,  the  cat  is  eating  grass,  the  gulls  have  left  the 
lake  and  fly  over  the  land,  the  flies  sting,  and  the 
cement  on  the  cellar  floor  is  damp,  so  I  think  it's  going 
to  rain ;  and  if  it  does,  I  ain't  a-going  to  begin  to  color  my 
rags,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  Btanding  arms  akimbo  on  the 
doorstep. 

"Yes,"  said  her  husband,  "it's  a  deal  like  rain;  the 
moon  had  a  shroud  on  it  last  night,  and  the  Irogs  crouked 
terrible,  and  my  rheumatics  has  just  been  ramping." 

"Yes,"  went  on  Mrs.  Deans,  "my  corns  has  ached  intol- 
erable, and  the  cows  have  been  lowing  since  daybreak ; 
there's  no  doubt  but  what  it's  going  to  rain.  I  vvonder  if 
Myron  Holder  is  a-coming,  or  if  she  ain't!" 

"Oh,  she'll  be  here  in  time  for  breakfast!"  said  ^Ir. 
Deans,  with  would-be  sarcasm.     "  How  you  can  abide  that 


I 


■^%\\ 


f 


102 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


girl  and  Liz  I  don't  know,  Jane;  no  mortal  good's  fur's  I 
see.  That  Liz  eats  her  head  off  every  day  she  rises,  and  as 
for  Myron  Holder,  she  picks  and  pecks  and  turns  up  her 
nose  as  if  the  eatin'  wasn't  good  enough  for  her;  it  beats 
me  what's  the  good  of  'em." 

"  Well,  '  said  his  wife,  sharply,  "  there  ain't  no  great 
call,  fur's  I  see,  for  you  to  see  whether  they're  any  good 
or  not,  an'  no  need  for  you  to  worry  over  the  victuals,  for 
that  I'll  make  shift  to  attend  to.  I  suppose  you'd  like  mo 
to  slave  myself  to  death,  and  git  along  without  'emV 
Well,  if  that's  what's  on  your  mind,  Just  relieve  your  feel- 
ings of  it  right  away — for  be  a  slave  to  no  man  I  won't,  and 
that  settles  that!"  with  which  Mrs.  Deans  betook  herself 
out  to  the  gate  to  look  for  further  manifestatons  bearing 
upon  the  weather,  and  to  see  if  Myron  Holder  was  coming. 

Mr.  Deans  shrunk  up  in  his  chair,  blinking  as  he 
chewed,  and  taking  his  rebuff  very  philosophically.  He 
was  accustomed  to  his  wife's  "onsartainness,"  and  when 
any  of  his  remarks  i)roved  a  boomerang,  he  simply  con- 
soled himself  with  the  thought  of  "  better  luck  next  time" 
and  subsided. 

Mrs.  Deans  went  out  1;0  the  gate.  It  was  early  morning, 
and  the  sun  was  rising  unseen  behind  heavy  masses  of 
water-charged  clouds ;  there  was  a  soft  grayness  of  impend- 
ing rain  in  the  air,  a  fresh  smell  of  springing  grass,  and 
new  leaves,  and  newly  turned  earth ;  the  gulls  had  deserted 
the  lake,  and  were  soaring  in  oblique  circles  through  the 
gray,  glisteningly  white;  the  swallows  from  under  the  eaves 
of  the  barn  were  journeying  forth  to  the  pond  for  the  clay 
to  coat  their  nests;  the  sparrows  were  chirping  saucily,  as 
they  robbed  the  young  chicks  of  the  grain  scattered  for 
them;  from  the  field  behind  the  barn  came  the  bleating 
of  the  lambs,  and  now  and  then  tliere  sounded  a  distant 
voice  as  Gamaliel  or  the  hired  men  shouted  to  their  horses. 


I 


n\ 


i 


J 


m 


CI 


i 


r//E-  UNTEMPERED   WIND 


103 


The  bound  girl,  coming  in  from  milking,  paused  to 
make  grimaces  at  the  unconscious  back  of  licr  benefactress, 
an  accomplishment  at  which  Liz  was  an  adept.  After 
contorting  her  face  horribly  for  a  few  moments,  accom- 
panying herself  mentally  with  unflattering  epithets 
addressed  to  the  same  unconscious  back,  Liz  went  on  her 
way  to  the  cellar,  having  very  much  enjoyed  the  relaxation 
of  her  facial  muscles.  Mrs.  Deans  stood  looking  down 
the  road.  Her  eyes  were  red  and  watery  this  morning,  and 
she  wiped  them  on  the  corner  of  her  apron.  Far  down 
towards  the  village  she  could  descry  a  vehicle  of  some 
kind,  but  no  one  on  the  footpath.  She  returned  to  the 
house,  and,  satisfied  that  Myron  Holder  would  not  arrive 
for  some  time  at  least,  went  up  to  the  garret  to  "  sort  over" 
the  contributions  that  had  been  sent  in  for  the  mission- 
box  that  was  going  to  the  far  West.  First,  however,  she 
called  to  her  husband  to  watch  for  Myron  Holder's 
appearance,  and  rap  on  the  wall  with  his  stick  when  he 
saw  her,  so  that  she  might  come  down  and  "be  ready  for 
her."  Mrs.  Deans  always  welcomed  Myron  Holder  with 
sneers  or  rage  in  the  morning,  just  as  her  grandmother 
greeted  her  with  reproaches  or  revilings  at  night.  There 
would  have  been  something  comic,  had  it  not  been  so 
cruel  and  so  sad,  in  the  way  these  women  played  battledore 
with  this  girl  as  shuttlecock  and  tossed  her  from  one  to  the 
other  to  be  buffeted. 

That  morning  Myron  Holder  had  just  got  clear  of  the 
village,  when  she  heard  behind  her  the  rumble  of  wheels; 
they  drew  nearer,  and  at  last  her  down -cast  eyes  caught 
the  image  of  a  wagon,  but  she  did  not  look  up,  and  did 
not  know  whose  it  was  until  she  heard  Homer  "Wilson's 
voice. 

"Good-morning,  Myron,"  he  said;  "are  you  going  out 
to  Deans'?" 


I04 


THE    L\\  TEMPER  ED   WIND* 


"Good-morning.  Yes,"  she  answered,  blushing  and  ill 
at  case,  for  ho  had  pulled  up  his  horses. 

"Then  climb  in  and  have  a  ride;  Fm  going  to  town," 
ho  said. 

"Oh,  no;  no   thank  you!"  said  Myron,  hanging  back. 

"What  for?     Come,  get  in,"  he  said. 

Myron  was  so  well  used  to  being  told  what  to  do,  and  so 
little  used  to  refusing,  that  she  half  made  a  step  towards 
the  wagon  then — "No,  I  mustn't" — she  paused — "you 
know— I " 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  Myron,"  returned  ho  with  decision. 
"  Climb  in  here !     I  never  see  you  these  days,  and  we  used  to 

be  good  friends "     The  infrequent  tears  rushed  to  her 

eyes.  Without  more  ado,  she  went  to  the  side  of  the  wagon 
and  set  a  foot  on  the  step ;  the  impatient  horses  started,  and 
she  felt  herself  half  lifted  in  by  Homer's  strong  arm.  The 
horses  sprang  forward,  to  be  soon  checked,  though,  for 
Homer  was  evidently  in  no  hurry  that  morning;  indeed,  the 
horses  were  restrained  to  an  unwilling  walk. 

"How's  things  getting  on  with  you,  Myron?"  asked 
Homer,  trying  to  speak  in  a  commonplace  tone. 

"Oh,  just  the  same,"  she  answered,  unsteadily.  "Mrs. 
Deans  kindly  keeps  me  on." 

"Oh,  she  does,  does  she?"  asked  Homer.  "Very  good  of 
her,  I'm  sure;  she's  a  most  charitable  woman,  Mrs. 
Deans  is!" 

Myron  somehow  felt  her  heart  sink  at  this.  Of  late, 
aroused  from  the  first  bewilderment  of  her  shame,  she  had 
wondered  once  or  twice  if  Mrs.  Deans  was  so  wholly 
admirable  in  her  life  and  intentions  as  she  said  she  was;  if 
she  herself  was  so  utterly  vile.  Homer's  reply  showed 
her,  or  so  she  thought,  that  she  was  wrong  in  doubting 
Mrs.  Deans. 

"Yes,"  went  on  Homer,  "Mrs.  Deans  is  what  Ma  calls 


\ 


? 


fi 


S- 


THE  UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


105 


a  *  mother  in  Israel, '  and  no  mistake.  How  many  she's 
mothered!  All  thrse  Home  girls!  And  now  struggling 
with  you!  Really,  Myron,  you  might  be  thought  most 
fortunate  to  get  into  such  a  household."  Something  in 
his  voice  gave  Myron  courage  to  look  up.  She  did — but  let 
her  eyes  fall  before  the  bitter  sneer  that  lurked  on  his  lip, 
the  scorn  that  shone  in  his  eyes.  In  that  instant  she 
gathered,  however,  that  none  of  it  was  for  her ;  the  next 
she  wa*"  conscious  of  a  desire  to  say  something  to  Homer  of 
Mrs.  Deans'  meanness,  backbiting,  insincerity,  hypocrisy. 
Myron  Holder  had  naturally  a  sweet  disposition,  but  the 
happiest  of  us,  even,  have  sometimes  a  longing  desire  to 
pull  another  down,  and  for  a  moment  this  temptation 
assailed  her  with  almost  irresistible  strength.  She  was  so 
inurod  to  blame  herself,  that  to  hear  another  dispraised, 
and  that  other  the  woman  who  embittered  each  hour  of 
the  day  for  her,  was  perilously  sweet.  She  half  parted  her 
lips,  but  the  generous  spirit  that  had  survived  so  many 
blows,  so  much  injustice,  yet  endured  and  stifled  the 
impulse.  She  sat  silent.  A  jingling  of  loose  tires,  a 
rattling  of  loose  bolts,  and  the  uneven  beating  of  a  lame 
horse's  hoofs  struck  upon  their  ears;  some  one  was  coming 
from  the  village. 

"Hullo,"  said  Homer,  without  looking  round,  "here's 
old  Crow  Muir  coming!"  The  young  men  of  Jamestown 
had  an  irreverent  habit  of  calling  Mr.  Muir  "Crow" — due 
to  the  solemn  hue  of  his  garb.  A  poor  compliment  any 
self-respecting  crow  would  have  deemed  it,  at  least,  when 
Mr.  Muir  was  attired,  as  he  was  this  morning,  in  his  oldest 
suit  of  black. 

Mr.  Muir's  vocation  compelling  him  to  travel  usually  in 
a  silent  and  slow  way,  he  liked,  when  not  bent  upon  an 
official  errand,  to  go  as  swiftly  and  noisily  as  he 
QQiild,     He  hftd  an  old  piebald  mare,  the  original  plan  of 


I' 


io6 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


whose  anatomy  was  so  obscured  by  lumps  and  distorted  by 
twists  as  to  be  almost  obliterated;  she  was  very  lame  in 
the  nigh  forefoot  and  had  the  stringhalt  in  her  off  hind 
leg,  so  that  her  gait  was  somewhat  startling  to  behold ;  her 
neck  was  long  and  lean,  her  head  heavy,  her  nose  Roman, 
her  eyes  set  close  together  in  a  bald  face,  her  tail  was  more 
like  a  mule's  than  a  horse's ;  but  despite  these  peculiarities, 
which  by  some  people  might  have  been  considered  disabili- 
ties, she  was  the  fastest  animal  in  Jamestown,  and  her  pro- 
geny was  noted  far  and  wide  among  the  local  sports.  The 
vehicle  behind  this  gallant  steed  was  as  direct  a  contradic- 
tion to  the  stately  hearse  as  could  be  imagined.  It  was  a 
light  wagon,  set  upon  ridiculously  high  wheels,  which, 
being  always  adjusted  loosely  at  the  axle,  had  a  lateral  as 
well  as  an  onward  movement ;  the  body  of  the  wagon  was 
not  more  than  five  inches  deep  and  painted  a  bright 
green  (the  same  paint  that  coated  the  undertaker's 
veranda  made  his  wagon  a  thing  of  vernui  beauty).  The 
seat  was  uncushioned  and  had  rungs  in  the  back,  like  a 
chair — in  fact,  it  was  a  section  taken  from  one  of  the  long, 
old-fashioned  desks  that  had  been  removed  from  the  school 
a  few  years  before  this  time. 

In  this  state  and  equipage,  then,  did  Mr.  Muir  overtake 
Homer  and  Myron. 

"Homer,  good-morning!"  said  Mr.  Muir,  solemnly,  as 
he  came  abreast  of  them ;  and  then  he  was  past,  his  wagon 
jingling  crazily,  his  knees  nearly  touching  his  chin,  each 
wheel  running  at  a  different  angle  and  leaving  wavering 
tracks  in  the  dust. 

"Oh,  Homer,"  ^.aid  Myron. 

"  Well,"  said  Homer,  "  what's  the  matter?" 

«  Mr.  Muir— he'll  talk,"  she  said. 

"You're  quite  right  there,"  said  Homer,  with  a  vicious 
tightening  of  the  lips.     "  It'll  do  him  good. "    He  gave  the 


* 


I 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


107 


restive  horses  a  ship  with  tlic  reins,  hut  tlie  next  moment 
checked  their  sudden  speed. 

"Don't  mind  me,  Myron,"  he  said,  fhishin^^  under  Ids 
hrown  skin  as  he  felt  her  nervous  start.  "  I  am  in  a  had 
temper  this  morning,  and  disgusted  with  tlie  way  people 
gahhlo  about  nothing."  And  then  they  drove  on  in 
silence  again.  As  they  passed  the  little  cemetery,  they  saw 
the  piebald  mare,  in  a  ridiculous  "stanJ  at  ease  "  position, 
tied  beside  the  gate. 

"Hear  of  any  one  dead?"  asked  Homer. 

"No,  not  a  word,"  said  Myron,  her  thoughts  reverting 
painfully  to  her  last  visit  to  her  father's  grave. 

"Well,  maybe  old  Crow's  gone  to  sec  if  any  of  'em  are 
coming  up,"  said  Homer.  Then,  the  thought  suggested  to 
him  by  the  field  of  young  springing  grain  opposite,  ho 
added,  "Not  much  of  a  crop  from  old  Crow's  planting." 
After  this  grim  speech  there  were  no  further  words  until 
they  were  opposite  the  wire  fence  of  Deans'  so-called 
garden. 

"Myron,"  said  Homer  hastily,  "any  time  you  want  a 
friend  for  anything,  come  to  me,  will  you?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply,  looking  at  him  with  ineffable 
gratitude  and  wonder  in  her  eyes.  "  But  have  you  for- 
gotten  " 

"My  memory's  as  good  as  most  folks'  is,"  said  Homer 
gruffly ;  then,  wishing  once  for  all  to  let  her  see  he  accepted 
the  facts  of  her  life,  he  said :  "  What  do  you  call  your 
child,  Myron?" 

"My,"  she  answered,  with  the  indescribable  mother- 
voice  of  love,  "  little  My." 

"A  very  good  name,  too,"  said  Homer,  with  conyiction. 
"I'm  coming  in  to  see  him  some  day." 

Myron  fairly  gasped  in  terror. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  with  entreaty  in  her  tones  and  eyes; 


5* 


''ft; 


io8 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


I   i 


"oil,  no,  promise  you  won't  tliink  of  sncli  a  tiling — prom- 
ise you  won't" — he  was  drawing  up  tholiorsesat  the  Deans* 
gate,  and  she  chisped  both  liands  over  his  arm  in  her 
urgency.  "  Promise,"  slic  urged,  lie  looked  down  at  her, 
his  face  som])re;  he  gathered  the  beauty  of  her  face  and 
pleading  eyes,  his  old  self  awakened  for  an  instant  from 
its  bath  of  bitterness,  and  his  old  natural  smile  made  his 
stern  face  bright  and  gent)e  as  he  said: 

"  Of  course,  I  won't,  if  you  don't  want  me  to.  Is  it  your 
grandmother?" 

"  Yes,  and "  she  unclasped  her  hands  and  began  to 

descend.     "  Thank  you  so  much,"  she  said. 

"  For  not  coming?"  he  asked.     Ilis  face  was  dark  again. 

"No;  for  speaking  to  me,"  she  answered,  as  she  turned 
quickly  to  the  house,  and  he  went  on  to  the  city,  as  fast  now 
as  his  horses  could  spurn  the  miles,  and  he  had  gone 
some  distance  before  his  face  lost  the  expression  caused 
by  her  last  speech ;  but  long  ere  he  reached  the  town,  the 
old  gloom  again  settled  ujion  his  countenance. 

From  the  high  window  Mrs.  Deans  had  watched  Myron 
and  Homer  as  they  drove  from  the  foot  of  the  garden;  as 
they  passed  the  corner  of  the  house  she  sped  to  a  more 
advantageous  window,  arriving  in  time  to  see  Myron 
unclasp  her  hands  from  his  arm  and  descend  from  the 
wagon.  Mrs.  Deans  could  hardly  restrain  herself  from 
calling  aloud  to  them,  and  proclaiming  her  discovery  of 
their  "brazenness,"  if  not  from  the  house-top,  at  least  from 
the  attic  window;  but  with  much  strength  of  will  she 
denied  herself  and  kept  silent  until  Homer's  wagon  van- 
ished, and  she  heard  a  vigorous  rap-rap  down  stairs. 
Then  she  collapsed  upon  a  heap  of  winter  quilts  that  were 
piled  in  the  attic  and  communed  with  herself. 

"She  was  doin'  some  rare  begging,  but  the  Wilsons  is 
strong  set  when  they've  made  up  their  minds.     But  ^UQli 


THE    Ui\ TEMPERED  WIND 


tOQ 


cheek !  To  drive  her  np  to  mij  door  as  bold  as  brass,  and 
in  no  hurry  out  of  sight,  either;  at  least,"  bethinking 
herself,  **ho  did  drive  oil  mighty  quick,  when  once  she 
got  out;  wonder  if  she  wanted  me  to  see  him!  Weii,  if 
thaVs  her  idea,  'twon't  do  her  no  good!  She  should  have 
told  me  when  I  asked  her;  I  won't  take  no  notice,  now; 
she  can't  get  me  to  back  down  from  what  I've  said;  it's  a 
terrible  disgrace  on  Marian  AVilson — well,  they  did  talk 
about  Marian  and  that  stonecutter  one  time,  but  he  went 
rway,  and  it  was  all  smothered  up,  but  I  had  niy  own 
thoughts.  Well,  this  is  a  judgment  on  her  now;  she  was 
too  set  up  when  Homer  came  back  to  the  farm;  like's 
not,  he  was  druv  to  it!  Fine  goin's  on,  I  warrant,  ho 
hrd  in  the  city!  Thank  the  Lord,  Maley's  not  sich  as 
Homer  Wilson;  but  then  he's  been  brought  up  dilTerent, 
and  it's  all  in  the  bringin'  up.  And  there  was  something 
very  queer  about  that  stonecutter  business;  that  would 
account  for  Homer's  being  so  bad." 

Mrs.  Deans  went  about  her  work  dreamily,  struggling 
with  the  problem  of  Homer's  depravity;  her  philosophy — 
like  some  other  philosophies — first  created  a  r<5sult,  and 
then  strove  to  invent  circumstances  to  justify  and  ex- 
plain it. 

Mrs.  Deans  was  sorely  tried  to  decide  what  course  was 
best  to  pursue :  she  would  have  liked  to  go  at  once  to  Mrs. 
Wilson,  and  proclaim  her  son's  iniquity  to  her  and  see 
"  how  she  took  it";  she  Icr.ged  to  go  to  Mrs.  Holder's  and 
announce  that  she  had  discovered  the  secret  which  had  so 
puzzled  the  village;  she  would  have  dearly  loved  to  shower 
upon  Myron  Holder  the  new  and  expressive  epithets  that 
were  trembling  upon  the  tip  of  her  tongue,  but  the  pecu- 
liar view  she  had  adopted  of  the  situation  suggested  to  her 
that  Myron  Holder  wanted  the  secret  she  had  kept  so  long 
and  so  well  discovered ;  and  greater  than  her  desire  to  see 


^ii 


<^M 


no 


THE    UNTEMPEkED  WIND 


her  lifelong  friend  disgraced  by  the  proof  of  her  son's 
fault — greater  than  her  desire  to  vindicate  her  own  superior 
cunning — greater  even  than  her  desire  to  berate  Myron 
Holder,  was  her  determination  to  make  Myron  Holder 
suffer;  so  she  dec'ded  to  take  no  active  step  in  the  affair, 
no  matter  how  hard  the  repression  of  her  rigliteous  wrath 
might  prove. 

She  felt,  however,  there  could  be  no  harm  in  giving 
Mrs.  White  a  hint  of  how  things  stood,  for  the  Sunday 
before  this  Homer  Wilson  had  tied  up  young  Ann  White's 
buggy  shaftb  when  he  found  her  at  a  standstill  on  the  way 
home  from  church.  Here  Mrs.  Deans  wandered  a  little 
from  the  main  track,  and  dwelt  a  while  on  the  enormity 
of  Homer  Wilson  tearing  along  the  roads,  or  through  the 
woods,  or  along  the  lake  shore,  the  whole  Sabbath  dr^y, 
iuMtoad  of  going  to  church ;  here  she  recalled,  with  a 
shock,  that  Myron  Holder  never  went  to  church  either, 
and  Mrs.  Deans,  putting  two  and  two  together,  decided 
that  not  only  of  sin,  but  of  sacrilege,  were  these  two 
guilty. 

Mrs.  Deans  felt  fired  with  a  great  zeal  for  young  Ann 
White's  soul:  if  she  should  be  led  into  marrying  Homer 
Wilson,  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  would  be!  Not  but  what 
the  Whites  needed  something  to  take  them  down  a  peg; 
still  the  pleasure  of  balking  Homer,  if  he  had  any  thoughts 
in  Ann  White's  direction,  would  be  something.  Besides, 
although  Mrs.  Deans  did  not  formulate  this  to  herself,  it 
would  relieve  the  pressure  of  restraint  to  tell  Mrs.  White 
tlie  circumstances,  and  Mrs.  Deans  concluded  to  herself: 
"  It  can't  do  no  harm  to  let  Ann  White  know.  I  miss  my 
guess  if  she  has  her  sorrows  to  seek;  that  Bing  isn't  ten 
removes  off  an  idiot." 

So  Mrs.  Deans  contented  herself  all  the  forenoon  by 
staring  at  Myron  Holder  Avith  a  concentrated  glare  of  con- 


my 
ten 


t 


THE    UNTRMPERED  WIND 


III 


tempt  and  triumph,  varied  only  by  sudden  calls  to  Liz  to 
''  come  back  from  there"  whenever  she  approached  Myron, 
and  when  Liz  "came  back,"  which  she  did  in  a  hasty  and 
indefinite  way,  not  knowing  very  well  why  Myron  had  sud- 
denly become  so  dangerous,  Mrs.  Deans  would  say : 

"Haven't  you  got  enough  evil  in  you,  but  what  you 
must  learn  more  bad  off  of  her?"  or,  "There  ain't  no  use 
my  striving  to  bring  you  up  decent,  when  your  natural 
bent  is  to  be  bad,"  or  some  other  remark  to  the  same 
effect. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  rain  heralded  by  so  many  infallible 
signs  made  its  appearance,  and  Mrs.  Deans  perforce 
remained  at  home.  She  took  her  sewing  to  the  kitchen, 
and  set  Myron  and  the  bound  girl  to  v^ork  to  mend  the 
grain  bags;  and  as  the  storm  outside  whipped  the  maples, 
and  struggled  with  the  oaks,  and  stripped  the  horse-chest- 
nut trees  of  their  brittle  blossoms,  so  the  storm  of  Mrs. 
Deans*  vituperation  raged  over  the  heads  of  the  two  girls 
sitting  on  the  floor  surrounded  by  the  dusty  grain  bags. 
Liz  was  in  such  a  state  of  nervousness  that  she  was  stick- 
ing her  needle  into  her  fingers  at  every  second  stitch,  when 
Myron  Holder  began  to  feel  the  floor  rising  with  her — the 
bags  whirled  round  and  round  in  a  circle  of  which  she  was 
the  centre;  the  floor  ceased  to  rise  evenly  and  tilted  up — 
up — on  one  edge — tilted  until  it  was  perpendicular,  and 
flung  Myron  Holder  off — a  long  distance  off — into  an  abyss 
of  darkness,  through  which  whirled  great  wheels  of  light 
that  rushed  toward  her  as  if  they  v/ould  utterly  destroy 
her,  but  always  passed  by  a  hair's  breadth ;  the  last  one 
passed,  its  Mght  vanished,  the  whirring  of.  its  rapid  flight 
died  away,  even  the  darkness  disappeared — Myron  Holder 
had  fainted.  She  still  sat,  needle  in  one  hand,  bag  in  the 
other.  Liz  reached  across  for  another  bag  and  chanced  to 
knock  against  her  slightly ;  Myron  fell  over  like  a  log. 


'si 


rr 


ixa 


THE   U^TEMPERED  WIND 


"  She's  dead!"  screamed  Liz,  and  sprang  up  with  hysteri- 
cal cries. 

Mrs.  Deans*  face  blanched. 

"You  fool,  get  out  of  the  way  I"  she  said,  and  pushed 
Liz  aside  savajoly,  as  she  rushed  toward  Myron's  prostrate 
figure.  "  Take  hold  of  her,"  ordered  Mis.  Deans,  in  a  voice 
that  quelled  the  bound  girl's  hysterics.  Together  they  got 
her  to  the  door;  Mrs.  Deans  flung  it  wide,  and  Myon 
opened  her  eyes  with  the  summer  rain  beatii  \  in  her  face 
and  the  waving  masses  of  green  trees  and  tossing  branches 
before  her  eyes.  To  that  blankness  succeeded  a  quick 
memory  of  its  approach,  a  shuddering  recollection  of 
that  final  plunge  into  darkness,  to  be  obliterated  by  phys- 
ical weakness  and  nausea;  she  clung  to  the  door  to  sup- 
port herself,  and  Mrs.  Deans  released  her  hold  of  her 
arms. 

"You  can  go  lie  down  on  Liz's  bed  till  you  come  to," 
said  Mrs.  Deans,  "  and  then  you  can  go  home  for  the  rest 
of  the  day." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Myron,  and  Mrs.  Deans  went  to  the 
dining-room,  while  Myron  crept  to  the  tiny  kitchen  bed- 
room — each  unaware  of  the  horrible  bathos  of  Myron's 
speech.  Mrs.  Deans  did  not  come  to  the  kitchen  for  some 
time,  and  when  she  did  Myron  was  gone — out  into  the 
storm  unseen  of  any,  to  struggle  through  rain  and  mud  to 
the  village,  "  a  reed  shaken  by  the  wind"  indeed. 


THE   VNTEMPEkED  WIND 


113 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"All  things  rejoiced  beneath  the  sun— the  :weed8, 
The  river,  and  the  cornfields,  and  the  reeds, 
The  willow  leaves  that  glanced  in  the  light  breeze, 
And  the  firm  foliage  of  the  larger  trees.  "  « 

The  rain  that  brought  back  sense  and  sound  to  Myron 
Holder  lasted  for  three  days,  falling  steadily  during  that 
time;  it  was  succeeded  by  the  most  joyous  of  weather. 
The  spring  was  past;  the  grass  grew  lush  and  green  beside 
the  little  ^vaterways  that  the  rain  had  created  by  the  road- 
side; these  mimic  rivers  had  in  miniature  all  the  diver- 
sities and  beauties  of  their  greater  brethren.  There  was  a 
gradual  decline  from  the  inland  to  the  lake,  and  adown 
this  many  of  these  evanescent  streams  found  their  way. 

The  stream  that  passed  the  Deans  farm  was  the  very  epit- 
ome of  Life.  Now  a  large  stone  obstructed  its  course  and 
divided  its  shallow  flood,  which  crept  sadly  round  either 
side  of  this  rocky  islet,  to  gush  gayly  together  beyond  it; 
after  a  short  space  of  calm  it  rushed  against  an  upturned 
sod  and,  broken  and  ragged,  fell  in  tatters  over  the  brink 
into  the  liti,!e  pool  below,  in  whose  tiny  vortex  floated 
twigs  and  bits  of  last  year's  grass,  and  perchance  a  glisten- 
ing white  feather  from  the  breast  of  a  gull ;  freed  from  its 
durance  in  the  pool  and  not  yet  schooled  to  peace  and 
patience,  the  stream  sped  on  hastily  and  noisily,  striving 
to  find  its  way  between  the  interlaced  red  roots  of  a  cedar ; 
its  haste  to  get  out  into  the  sunlight  defeated  its  ob- 
ject, and  the  close-knit  fibres  flung  it  back  again  and 
again,  but  it  returned  to  the  charge  with  tiny  banners  of 
foam  and  ripples  of  defiance ;  so  the  strife  continued  until 
the  gathering  ranks  of  water  rose  strong  enough  to  toss  the 
8 


u 


■  ^\ 


114 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


foremost  clear  over  the  barriers,  and  tlie  stream  went  on 
its  way  cheerily  until  the  dark  culvert  that  took  it  across 
the  road  was  reached,  and  as  souls  that  plunge  into  the 
darkness  of  death  leave  all  behind  them,  so  this  little 
stream  left  its  foam,  its  ripples,  its  burden  of  twigs  and 
wisps  of  grass  and  all  its  infinitesimal  fiotsam  and  jetsam, 
and  essayed  the  darksome  passage,  a  naked  little  stream ; 
once  out  in  the  light  again,  it  rippled  on  reflectively, 
until  at  last,  its  "  tribute  wave  delivered,"  it  merged  its 
identity  in  the  lake — losing  (and  here  we  cry  with  breath- 
less lips,  "Let  it  be  like  the  soul  in  this  also!")  losing  all 
puny  consciousness  of  individual  existence,  only  aware  of 
being  a  part  of  that  shining  reservoir,  dispensing  benefi- 
cent gifts  to  air,  and  blessing  and  being  blessed  by  the 
sun,  that  shone  down  more  sweetly  now  upon  it  than  when 
it  was  a  vain  and  fretting  brook. 

The  broad  burdock  leaves  grew  so  rapidly  in  these  days 
that  their  unstable  stalks  could  not  sustain  them.,  and 
they  trailed  near  the  ground,  bleached  and  unhealthy- 
looking,  defacing  the  plant  they  should  have  adorned,  like 
purposes  unfulfilled  for  lack  of  will. 

The  wood  violets  spent  all  their  surplus  sap  in  leaves,  and 
their  later  blooms  were  smothered  in  this  luxuriance  of 
foliage,  as  good  resolves  die  'mid  jiany  words. 

Tn  the  maples,  besides  the  singing  of  birds,  there  was  now 
to  be  heard  the  "  lisp  of  leaves"  murmuring  nature's  alpha- 
bet. The  swallows  did  not  fly  about  so  wildly,  nor  the 
bob-o-link,  singing,  soar  so  high — for  the  swallows  hov- 
ered ever  near  the  gray  eaves  of  the  barns,  where,  in  their 
clay  houses,  the  white  eggs  were  being  patiently  warmed 
to  life,  and  the  bob-o-link  (that  slyest  of  birds)  lingered 
ever  in  the  grass  meadows,  where,  upon  a  nest  hid  most 
cunningly,  its  mate  sat  listening  to  its  singing.  The 
ponds  and  the  margins  of  the  lake  were  alive  with  wrig- 


I 


TJIE    UN  TEMP  FRED   WIKD 


II 


%\ 


1 


gling  tadpoles,  and  Bing  White  hung  enchanted  over  a 
pool  left  at  the  foot  of  his  father's  field  where,  when  the 
sun  was  high,  the  water  spiders  darted  hither  and  thitlier. 
It  was  not  the  insects  Bing  watched,  but  the  shadows  cast 
by  them  upon  the  sandy  bottom  of  the  pool;  for,  by  a 
conspiracy  between  the  water  f*nd  the  sun,  the  minute 
disks  that  form  the  feet  of  these  creatures,  and  enable 
them  to  "walk  upon  the  water"  in  very  truth,  were  magni- 
fied a  thousand  times,  and  this  enlarged  refraction,  like 
spots  of  gold,  wavered  through  the  Avater  in  consonance 
with  the  spiders'  movements  on  the  surface.  When  the 
sun  shone  brightly,  the  spiders  came  out  in  force,  and 
darted  about  untiringly ;  it  was  as  though  the  spiders  wove 
a  web  of  shining  water,  flinging  round  golden  bobbins 
through  the  woof  and  weft  of  their  fabric. 

A  little  fawn-colored  wild  duck,  beluted  in  its  journey 
to  the  north,  came  to  this  pool,  a  solitary  but  contented 
little  bird,  until  Bing  stoned  it  so  persistently  that  it  fle\^ 
away  one  day,  never  to  return.  The  spring  grains  wer3 
growing  strongly,  and  the  fall  wheat  was  tall  and  vividly 
green,  except  that  patches,  bare  save  for  knotty  roots 
upthrown  upon  the  surface,  showed  where,  upon  the  high 
ground,  it  had  been  "winter  killed,"  or  spaces  of  bleached 
and  yellowed  blades  indicated  where,  in  the  hollows,  the 
heavy  rains  had  "  drowned  it  out."  The  blossoming  of  the 
fruit  trees  was  past,  thnt  marvellous  season  of  efflorescence 
and  beauty,  when  the  air  is  heavy  with  perfume  and  the 
paths  strewn  with  petals — the  rose  and  white  of  the  apples, 
the  mother-o'-pearl  purity  of  the  cherry,  the  fragrant 
ivory  of  the  pears,  loose-leaved  plum  flowers,  and  the  hiding, 
faint-pink  quince  blooms — these  and  the  peach  blows  that 
made  gay  and  glad  the  gardens  ana  \    "^  orchards. 

And  the  woodlands  and  the  lanes  rejoiced  also — for 
theirs  were  the  cloyingly  sweet  blooms  of  the  pea  tree  and 


i 


'  )i 


t!6 


THE    UNTEMPERED  JVIND 


the  insignificant-looking  i)ut  lioney-smolling  flowers  of 
the  locust,  the  bitter-sweet  blossoms  of  the  wild  plum,  so 
finely  cut  in  tiny  petals,  so  filled  with  snow-white  stamens, 
so  thickly  massed  together  as  to  make  the  tree  seem  a 
fragrant  snow  cloud ;  then  there  was  the  red  and  pink  of 
the  "natural"  apples,  the  ungrafted  trees  that  had  sprung 
up  in  every  neighboring  woodland;  their  taste  was  in- 
sipid, and  had  u.  peculiar,  smoky  flavor,  but  their  blos- 
soms were  not  less  sweet  than  those  of  their  cultured  kins- 
folk, and  side  by  side  with  them  stood  the  "choke  cherry" 
with  its  long  sprays  of  fragile  blossoms  that  nauseate  with 
their  odor.  Best  of  all,  either  in  woodland  or  garden, 
orchard  or  lane,  there  was  the  wild  crab-apple,  upon  whose 
gnarled  and  thorny  branches  grew  its  unspeakably  sweet 
flower.  The  pink- veined  petals  folded  about  its  perfumed 
centre,  or  opening  but  an  hour  or  two,  to  discloss  its 
golden  heart,  then,  paling  and  falling,  overcome  by  its 
own  breath;  for  in  the  perfume  of  the  wild  crab-apple 
there  lies  all  the  story  of  the  year,  all  the  life  of  love;  it 
has  taken  to  itself  all  the  sweetness,  the  bitterness,  the 
languors,  the  fever,  the  desire,  the  satiety,  the  distaste, 
the  joy,  the  sting  of  winter,  the  swoon  of  summer,  the 
expectancy  of  spring,  the  overcoming  of  autumn,  taken 
all,  and  mingling  it  with  that  we  dream  of,  but  know 
not,  offers  it  to  us  upon  thorny  branches.  And  the  fruit 
of  these  blossoms  is  bitter. 

AVhen  the  bloom  was  gone  from  all  the  trees,  then  the  bees 
began  to  hum  about  the  currant  bushes,  sipping  the 
sweets  of  their  green  flowers,  and  there  rose  from  orchard 
and  field  the  savor  of  grape  bloom.  For  Jamestown  sent 
many  hundred  tons  of  grapes  to  the  wine  factories  every 
year,  and  around  the  fences  or  over  the  cedars,  there  grew 
the  "  fox"  grape,  the  "  chicken"  grape,  and  the  bitter  wild 
grape  from  which  they  distill  a  syrup  for  the  throat. 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


117 


i!      i 


f 


Mrs.  Deans*  garden  was  "  made,"  planted  from  side  to  side 
with  vegetables,  daily  growing  higher;  the  leaves  were 
thickening  on  the  currant  bushes,  and  the  young  grape 
leaves  were  losing  their  downy  whiteness  and  growing 
green  and  thick.  Young  turkeys,  goslings,  ducky,  and 
baby  chickens  disputed  with  each  other  for  the  food  dis- 
pensed so  liberally  to  them;  but  Mrs.  Deans  rr.led  her 
poultry -yard,  as  she  did  her  other  belongings,  with  a  rod  of 
iron.  The  turkeys  were  the  aristocrats  of  the  place;  they 
ate  milk,  white  curds  and  chopped  lettuce,  and  boiled  eggs 
minced  fine,  with  pepper;  the  rest  fared  on  common 
meal — only  all  the  spare  time  the  bound  girl  had  was 
spent  in  digging  worms  for  the  ducks. 

"See  that  big  worm  there,  Myron,"  she  said  one  day, 
pointing  to  a  huge,  wriggling  worm  that  two  ducks  were 
disputing  2>ossession  of;  "see  that  worm?  Well,  that's 
Mrs.  Deans;  of  all  the  trouble  that  contrary  critter  give 
me  I  can't  tell!  It  near  wore  me  out,  a-digging  and 
a-digging;  now  it's  in  trouble  its  own  self — you  see — it'll 
be  torn  in  two  yet,^  yes — glad  of  it — the^*e  it  goes!  That'll 
happen  to  Mrs.  Deans  some  day,  when  the  Lord  gets  hold 
of  her.  Hush?  I  won't  hush!  Ain't  she  always  a  jan- 
gling? Jangling  is  something  I  can't  abide,  and  how  she 
goes  it  about  nothing  at  all !  She'll  be  tore  in  two  along  o' 
her  ways,  see  if  she  ain't."  With  which  satisfactory  and 
encouraging  prophecy  Liz  betook  herself  indoors. 

Mrs.  Deans  had  never  found  the  time  to  go  to  Mrs. 
White's,  but  when  one  day  her  son  Gamaliel  told  her  he 
had  seen  Homer  Wilson  and  Myron  talking  together  in 
the  "  open  village  street"  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Deans  burned 
within  her,  and  she  reproached  herself  that  she  had  not 
gone  sooner;  if  she  waited  any  longer  it  might  be  stale 
news;  if  they  were  brazen  enough  to  talk  to  each  other 
pa  th^  street — people — Jamestown  people — would  not  fail 


i\ 


4 


1 


J 


31 


ii8 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


\ 


to  notice  it;  now  tlmt  there  was  a  possibility  of  other  lips 
telling  "young  Ann  White"  of  Homer  Wilson's  badness 
Mrs.  Deans  felt  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  act  at  once,  to 
arise  in  her  strength  and  baffle  the  designs  of  the  evil  one 
upon  the  unsuspecting  citadel  of  young  Ann  White's 
heart.  Mrs.  Deans  called  it,  to  herself,  "  putting  Homer 
AVilson's  nose  out  of  joint  in  that  quarter  anyhow,"  but 
the  phrase  matters  little,  the  intention  expressed  being 
identical. 

To  "  stir  up  the  lazy  and  strengthen  the  weak"  is  a  pro- 
ceeding much  to  be  admired  doubtless,  being  enjoined  by 
no  less  authoritative  edict  than  the  Westminster  Confes- 
sion ;  and  however  Mrs.  Deans  regarded  the  latter  half  of 
the  injunction,  she  had  nothing  to  reproach  herself  with 
in  view  of  one  of  its  requirements.  That  Mrs.  Deans 
regarded  all  people  under  her  as  being  lazy,  as  well  as  the 
majority  of  her  neighbors,  may  be  taken  as  granted;  it 
will  therefore  be  seen  that  she  had  little  time  for  the  lat- 
ter half  of  the  command.  Before  she  left  for  Mrs. 
White's  that  day,  she  went  to  the  kitchen  and  gave  Liz 
and  Myron  an  eloquent  extempore  narration  of  their  past 
sins  and  shortcomings,  their  present  delinquencies,  their 
future  state  of  sin  and  misery,  proceeding  to  a  peroration 
regarding  the  probabilities  of  their  immortal  lives,  and 
rounding  off  her  address  with  a  pleasant  prediction  of 
eternal  perdition  for  both  of  them.  Having  given  them 
tasks  they  could  not  possibly  perform  before  her  return, 
Mrs.  Deans  turned  her  attention  to  her  husband.  As  he 
could  not  move  about  much,  and  as  he  had  a  maddening 
gift  for  holding  his  tongue,  Mrs.  Deans  was  often  exasper- 
ated by  him;  upon  this  occasion,  having  absolutely  no 
handle  to  hinge  her  remarks  upon,  she  contented  herself 
with  a  few  well-considered  and  audible  reflections  upon  his 
utter  uselessness,  "  either  to  Go(i  or  man"  as  she  put  it, 


1 


THE    UX  TEMPERED   WIND 


no 


which  threw  such  a  burden  upon  her  "lielpless"  shouhlcrs; 
tlien  she  picked  up  his  phig  of  cliewing  tobacco  and  nar- 
rowly regarded  how  much  of  it  was  gone,  with  a  view  to 
gauging  the  quantity  lie  consumed  in  her  absence,  lie 
squirmed  under  this ;  it  affected  him  more  than  bitter  words. 

Having  made  every  one  as  uncomfortable  as  possible, 
Mrs.  Deans  went  her  way. 

Myron  and  Liz  went  out  to  their  hoeing,  Liz  saying 
when  once  out  of  earshot  of  Mr.  Deans : 

"  Did  ye  hear  her  jist,  Myron,  v  ith  that  talk  about 
'eternal  lakes  of  burning' —  what's  'eternal'  but  'contin- 
ual?'— an'  if  Mrs.  Deans  ain't  a  continual  burning  torment 
her  own  self,  I'll  never  drink  water!  Ain't  she  now, 
Myron?  Why  don't  you  speak  out  and  say  what  you 
think?  Keep  still?  Told  us  not  to  talk?  Of  course  she 
did!  She'd  stop  the  dogs  from  barking  if  she  could;  I'll 
talk  all  I  like!  Old  Stiffen  can't  see  me  till  I  get  past  the 
third  currant  bush,  and  I'll  take  care  to  be  quiet  then — 
old  wretch  he  is!  I'd  like  to  scald  him  some  day  to  see  if 
that  would  limber  him  up  and  take  him  out  of  the 
kitchen,  a-watchin'  and  a-watchin'."  Liz,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  talked  more  than  she  hoed ;  but  she  had  worked  hard 
in  a  compulsory  silence  since  daybreak,  so  it  was  hardly  to 
be  wondered  at  that  she  should  be  both  slow  and  voluble  now. 

Myron's  own  eyes  were  heavy,  and  as  she  bent  above  her 
hoeing,  her  hands  were  none  too  eager  for  the  toil,  nor  her 
feet  too  ready  to  advance;  she  worked  on  steadily 
though,  and  was  beginning  a  new  row  before  Liz  com- 
pleted her  first  one ;  as  Liz  passed  her  after  some  time  to 
begin  her  second  row,  she  said  in  an  explosive  undertone: 

"  You  can't  scare  me  with  no  hell-fire  after  living  along 
o'  Mrs.  Deans;"  then  seeing  Myron  paid  no  heed,  she  mut- 
tered to  herself,  "and  old  Stiffen,  too,  he'd  sicken  any 
devil,  a-watchin'  and  a-watchin'," 


•V  1 


.1: 


120 


THE    UN  TEMPER  ED   WIND 


Liz,  it  will  bo  seen,  was  not  the  model  cliild  of  story 
)jook  fume;  the  girl  was  the  ordinary  type  of  her  class,  with 
a  thousand  inherited  failings,  a  dozen  minor  vices;  but 
against  these  she  had  a  heart  that  ached  for  love,  a  tongue 
that  told  the  truth  tliougli  it  earned  a  blow;  a  generous 
and  impulsive  soul:  but,  alas,  in  Mrs.  Deans'  house  she 
absorbed  naught  of  good  to  offset  her  faults,  save  the  vir- 
tue of  courage  and  endurance,  which,  seeing  Myron 
Holder's  bravery,  she  cultivated  through  shame. 

The  hours  passed. 

AVatching  the  girls  as  closely  as  ho  could,  Henry  Deans 
sat  blinking  in  the  sun,  like  a  malevolent  lizard  lying  in 
wait  for  flies. 

Mrs.  Deans  meantime  made  her  way  along  the  road  to 
Mrs.  White's.  The  AVhite  house  stood  back  some  distance 
from  the  road,  and  was  approached  by  a  long,  narrow  lane, 
bordered  by  weather-beaten  rail  fences,  none  too  well  kept, 
Mrs.  Deans  thought  wrathfully,  as  she  stumbled  over  a 
broken  rail;  the  grass  had  grown  so  rank  about  it  that  it 
was  almost  entirely  hidden.  Mrs.  Deans  inveighed  agaijist 
shiftiessness  in  general,  and  the  White  type  in  particular, 
all  the  way  to  the  front  door,  whose  iron  handle  and  heavy 
knocker  bespoke  the  age  of  the  house;  it  was,  indeed,  one 
of  the  old  landmarks,  built  at  a  time  when  the  settlers 
hewed  the  finest  oak  trees  in  the  wood  for  their  kitchen 
rafters,  and  begrudged  not  to  use  the  magnificent  black 
walnuts  for  their  stairs.  This  house  had  been  the  first 
one  in  Jamestown  to  have  shutters — massive,  solid  affairs 
of  oak,  adjusted  and  held  in  place  by  heavy  bars  of  iron 
that  extended  diagonally  across  them;  the  Whites,  how- 
ever, were  much  distressed  by  the  old  style  of  these  shut- 
ters, and  a  year  or  two  previously  had  -substituted  modern 
green  slatted  shutters  upon  the  front  of  the  house. 

Young  Aaa  AVhitQ  wswered  Mr^.  Deans'  knock,  ancl 


T 


i 


)4IIS,  PFANS  CALLS  ON  MRS.  WHITB. 


..      ,;< 


■i 

'l^M 

"'il 

Itj 

■Ml 

T  i 

^ 

f 


THE    UNTEArrKKED  WIND 


131 


ushered  her  in  with  awkward  cordiality.  Young  Ann 
White's  name  was  Osaie  Annie  Abbio  Maria  Wliite,  named 
after  '*  four  aunts  and  her  i)a"  as  Mrs.  Wliito  said.  Tiio 
Jamestown  people  pronounced  the  iirst  three  names  with 
a  strong  accent  upon  the  first  syllable,  and  the  middle  syl- 
lable of  Maria  they  clung  to  until  they  lost  breath  and 
relinquished  it  with  ft  gasp;  as  they  uttered  it,  Miss 
AVhite's  name  was  a  sentence  by  itself. 

Mrs.  White  came  bustling  in  before  Mrs.  Jeans  got 
seated,  and  after  expressing  hor  pleasure  at  seeing  her, 
saying,  "  I  declare,  Jane,  the  sight  of  you's  good  for  sore 
eyes!"  entered  with  great  zest  into  the  discussion  of 
village  gossip.  Mrs.  White's  sitting  room  was  an  apart- 
ment that  evidenced  loudly  the  taste  and  industry  of  Afrs. 
White  and  her  daughter.  It  had  a  "  boughten"  carpet  on 
the  floor,  and  upon  this  were  strewn  hooked  mats  of  strange 
and  wonderful  design,  trees  with  roses,  daisies  and  blue 
flowers  of  name  unknown,  growing  luxuriantly  upon  every 
branch;  bright  yellow  horses  and  green  dogs  stood 
together  upon  the  same  mat  in  millcnium-liko  peace, 
undisturbed  by  the  red  birds  and  white  cats  that  tnjoyed 
the  same  vantage  ground  with  them ;  but  finer  than  any  of 
the  others  was  the  black  mat  placed  in  the  centre  of  the 
floor,  as  being  less  likely  to  be  trodden  upon  there;  its 
design  was  a  salmon-pink  girl  in  a  green  dress.  By  what 
was  little  less  than  inspiration,  Mrs.  White  had  formed 
the  eyes  out  of  two  large  and  glistening  black  buttons. 
The  chairs  were  black  haircloth,  each  adorned  with  a 
crocheted  tidy  worked  by  Miss  White;  the  making  of 
these  tidies  was  iier  life — by  means  of  them  she  divided  her 
life  into  times  and  seasons.  ITer  one  tragedy  was  com- 
passed by  the  unholy  fate  of  one  which,  being  just  com- 
jdeted,  fell  into  the  paws  and  from  thence  to  the  jaws  of 
a  mischievous  collie  puppy,  and  was  speedily  reduced  to 


€ 


taa 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


rags.  Ilor  great  acliievement  was  the  making  of  a  "  Rose 
of  Sharon"  tidy  out  of  No.  100  thread.  She  could  always 
fix  any  date  by  recalling  what  tidy  she  was  engaged  upon 
at  the  time.  There  was  the  "Spider-web  tidy,"  the 
"Sheaves  of  Wheat,"  the  "Rose  of  Sharon,"  the  "Double 
Wheel" ;  one  she  called  a  "  Fancy  patterning  tidy,"  and  an- 
other was  known  as  the  "  One  In  strips." 

The  room  had  a  large  old-fashioned  mantel-piece  of 
heavy  oak ;  beneath  it  had  been  a  huge  square  fireplace, 
big  enough  to  hold  a  roaring  fire  of  logs,  but  the  massive 
lire-board  stood  before  it  winter  and  summer  now,  for  it 
was  never  used.  The  fire-board  was  also  of  oak,  darkened 
to  that  tint  that  the  virtuoso  loves  and  the  dealer  in 
spurious  antiques  strives  after  in  vain.  I?ut  this  year, 
]\lrs.  White  had  papered  it  over  with  wall  paper,  pink 
roses  on  a  white  ground,  and  a  blue  border. 

"  It  does  look  so  much  more  genteel  and  cheerful!"  said 
Mrs.  AVliite,  and  Mrs.  Deans  agreed  with  her. 

The  mantel  was  decked  with  a  gaudy  china  vase,  with 
paper  fiowers  in  it;  a  lamp,  in  the  oil  of  which  was  a  piece 
of  rod  fiannel,  thought  to  be  decorative  as  it  showed  tliTough 
the  glass;  a  crosscut  out  of  porf orated  cardboard,  and  two 
curious  round  objects  like  spheres  of  finely  carven  wood ; 
these  were  clove  apples.  It  was  common  in  polite  society 
in  Jamestown  to  ask  "  How  old  is  your  clove  apple?"  The 
answer  was  usually  given  in  years,  and  would  have  greatly 
surprised  any  stranger  to  clove  apples.  To  make  a  clove 
[ipple,  they  selected  the  largest  specimen  of  apple  to  be 
found  (and  in  Jamestown  that  meant  a  very  big  apple 
indeed).  Having  got  the  apple,  the  next  proceeding 
was  to  stick  it  full  of  cloves,  as  closely  as  possible;  that 
was  all — the  cloves  absorbed  aiul  dried  the  juices  of  the 
apple — the  apple  shrunk  and  shrunk,  wedging  the  cloves 
tighter  and  tighter  together;  until  at  last  they  became  so 


THE    UM  TEMP  EKED  WIXD 


123 


tightly  welded  togetlier  by  the  pressure  that  it  was  jihrfo- 
lutely  impossible  to  pull,  pry,  or  cut  one  out;  Ihey  were 
popular  ornaments  in  Jamestown  sitting-rooms.  Mrs. 
White,  when  any  reference  to  clove  apples  was  made,  in- 
variably said  that  she  remembered  the  time  when  tomatoes 
were  called  love  apples,  and  kept  for  "ornamings,"  by 
which  she  meant  ornaments. 

The  walls  of  Mrs.  White's  sitting-room  were  hung  with 
pictures;  there  was  a  highly  colored  print  representing  a 
pair  of  white  kittens  against  a  red  velvet  background, 
playing  with  dominoes;  there  was  a  glazed  chromo  of  a 
preternaturally  blonde  ba])y,  sleeping  in  a  preternaturally 
green  field,  bestrewn  with  jn'oteriKiturally  wliite  daisies;  a 
woodcut  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  one  of  Queen  Victoria,  and 
a  diploma  for  the  excellence  of  Mr.  White's  fat  cattle 
completed  the  decoration  of  the  walls,  except  above  the 
door,  where  purple  wools  on  a  perforated  cardboard  asked 
again  the  piercing  question,  "  What  is  Home  Without  a 
Mother?" 

There  was  a  oentre-table,  with  a  large  13ible  overlaid 
with  a  crocheted  mat  upon  it,  and  a  home  made  foot-stool 
that  tripped  you  up  every  time  you  entered  the  room. 

Mrs.  Deans  had  brought  no  work  with  her,  and  when 
Mrs.  White  produced  a  basket  and  began  to  piece  a  block 
of  a  quilt,  Mrs.  Deans  begged  for  thread  and  needle. 
Young  Ann  White  rose  to  get  them,  and  Mrs.  Deans  said : 

"  Well,  Ann,  now  who's  this  quilt  for?"  The  girl  bridled 
and  tossed  her  head  until  her  rough  hair  stood  on  end ; 
her  dull  skin  and  phlegmatic  temperament  made  blushing 
an  impossibility.  Mrs.  White  broke  in  with  boisterous 
good  humor; 

"Oh,  Ann  knows  who  it's  fer  all  right  enough;  it's  a 
poor  hen  can't  scratch  fer  one  chick,  and  that's  all  Sam 
and  me  has  got — one  apiece — Ann  and  Bing.     Ann's  got 


t\ 


h 


1^4 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


eight  quilts  fill  pieced  now;  this  is  the  album  pattern. 
When  I  finish  this,  I'm  going  to  work  on  a  'Rising  Sun' 
and — show  Mrs.  Deans  that  lace  you  made  fer  pilly  cases, 
Ann." 

Ann  went  to  obey. 

"She's  so  set  on  them  things,"  continued  her  mother  in 
an  undertone,  with  many  nods  and  headshakings;  "so  set 
01]  'em.  It's  really  wonderful ;  it  makes  me  real  nervous 
sometimes.  There  was  Sarah — my  cousin  twice  removed 
by  marriage  on  Sam's  side — and  when  she  had  consump- 
ting,  nothing  would  do  but  she  must  have  a  boughten 
feather ;  time  and  time  again  I  argued  with  her,  but  never 
to  no  account — a  boughten  feather  she  would  have,  and 
being  near  the  end,  and  being  the  only  one  the  Clem 
Whiteses  had,  why  they  took  to  it  that  they'd  humor  her. 
So  one  day  off  Clem  started  and  got  the  feather;  he  went 
to  a  millingnery  store,  and  he  says,  says  he,  *If  the 
feather  don't  suit  the  lady — if  it  ain't  becomin,'  he  said, 
for  the  clerk  looked  up  sharp;  *  If  it  ain't  becomin,*  Clem 
said,  being  always  one  to  use  fine  language,  *  if  it  ain't 
becomin,'  I'll  bring  it  back  and  change  it  for  something 
else. ' 

"  So  he  took  the  feather  home,  and  th  i  .>o  days  after 
Sarah  died,  real  reconciled  'cause  she'd  g  v  iLe  feather; 
they  was  real  afraid  she'd  ask  them  to  buij  '■  /.ith  her, 
she  thought  so  much  of  it,  but  they'd  head  her  oif  if  they 
thought  she  was  going  to  speak  of  it,  and  remind  her  her 
end  was  near,  which  didn't  make  her  enjoy  the  feather 
any  the  less,  but  just  made  her  say  less  about  it.  Well, 
when  the  end  came,  it  came  suddent  and  she  had  no  time 
to  ask  any  promises;  but  she  held  on  to  it  and  when  they 
drawed  the  pilly  away,  she  still  had  it  in  her  hand ;  well, 
her  mother  took  it  back  to  the  millingnery  store  and  got 
a  whole  black  bunnit  for  the  price  of  that  feather.     It's 


IHJL    UNrEMPERLD   WIND 


125 


% 


toirible  wliat  they  do  ask  for  them;  they  say  Sam  War- 
ner's wife  had  more  than  an  idea  of  getting  one  in  the  city 
when  they  went  down  to  soil  the  wool,  bnt  I  guess  she 
thought  that  would  be  just  a  little  more  than  his  people 
would  stand,  and  give  up  the  idea — but  pshaw!  I 
wouldn't  be  surprised  any  day  to  see  her  with  a  feather; 
she's  bought  buttoned  shoes  for  that  young  one  of  hers; 
why,  my  land !  our  Ann  never  had  a  pair  of  buttoned  shoes 
till  long  after  she  had  spoke  in  after-meeting. 

"  But  Ann's  so  set  on  them  things,  it  fairly  makes  mo 
wonder  if  it  ain't  a  warning  that  she'll  be  cut  down. 
You  know  how  'tis  with  us  all,  Jane,  'the  flower  fadeth.'  " 
Here  Ann  returned  with  various  rolls  of  crochet  trimming 
for  Mrs.  Deans  to  see ;  she  unpinned  the  ends,  extended 
them  upon  her  black  apron,  and  waited  the  praise  she 
deserved.  Mrs.  Deans  gave  it  liberally,  but  did  not  fail  to 
describe  the  work  she  had  seen  at  Mrs.  Wilson's,  left 
there  by  one  of  her  market  customers  who  came  out  to 
spend  the  day.  Mrs.  Deans  described  this  production  in 
such  marvellous  terms  that  Ann  gathered  up  her  treas- 
ures quite  sadly,  and  as  she  pinned  up  each  fat  little  roll 
wondered  if  by  any  possibility  she  could  get  the  pattern. 

Ann  sat  down  down  to  a  tidy  of  intricate  design — her 
mother  babbled  on  about  Bing  and  Ann,  and  her  chickens 
and  her  garden;  Mrs.  Deans  felt  irritated.  The  door  of 
the  sitting-room  opened  upon  the  veranda;  it  was  Hung 
wide  open,  and  held  back  by  a  cloth-covered  brick,  and 
the  sunshine  streamed  gloriously  across  the  gaudy  mats. 

Mrs.  White  was  flowery  of  speech,  being  much  given  to 
the  quoting  of  Scripture  and  apt  to  indulge  in  poetical 
similes  drawn  from  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Ilemans,  as 
used  in  the  school-books.  She  was  herself  a  poet  of  wide 
local  repute,  having  composed  the  epitaph  for  a  son  lost  in 
babyhood;  engraved  upon  his  tombstone  it  read: 


if 


'  J 


'I 

A 


i] 


126  THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 

"Goo(l-by,  young  William  Henry  White, — 
The  fever  took  you  from  me  quite. 
The  time  has  come  for  us  to  sever ; 
But,  William  llcury,  not  forever.  " 

Mrs.  White  wore  her  hair,  still  dark  and  abundant,  in 
rows  of  curls.  It  was  only  after  Ann  grew  up  that  slie 
discarded  the  blue  ribbon  she  had  affected  since  her  own 
girlhood. 

Sitting  in  the  sunshine,  Mrs.  Deans  felt  this  comfortable 
self-satisfaction  to  be  an  unholy  thing  upon  the  part  of  the 
Whites.     So  she  said  abruptly : 

"Isn't  it  a  terrible  thing  about  Homer  Wilson?  Well, 
it'll  teach  Marian  a  lesson;  she  set  too  much  store  on 
Homer  altogether.  I  knowed  what  Homer  Wilson  was  long 
before  this  came  out!" 

"Why,  Jane,  I  never  heard  anything  against  Homer! 
What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mrs.  White,  looking  over  her 
spectacles  at  Mrs.  Deans. 

"Why,  they  say — but  I  don't  want  this  mentioned, 
Ann;  I  want  this  kept  particular  confidential  between  us 
two,  and  no  one  else  to  be  the  wiser,  though  the  talk's 
getting  round,  as  others  can  tell  beside  me.  But  what 
folks  tell  is  that  if  Myron  Holder's  young  one  ain't  named 
Homer,  it  ain't  because  it  hadn't  ought  to  be." 

"Well,  my  lands!"  said  Mrs.  White,  whilst  her  daugiiter 
said  nothing,  but  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  "that's  what  they  say,  and  I 
could  tell  things.  But  standing  in  the  light  of  one  who's 
tried  to  do  the  best  she  can  for  everybody,  I  never  said  a 
word!  But  there — there's  no  use  talking  over  them; 
the  point  was,  I  felt  it  a  duty  when  I  heard  he  was  sitting 
up  with  your  Ann." 

Mrs.  Deans  paused — there  was  no  reply — so  she  contin- 
ued: "I  felt  you  ought  to  know  the  truth  of  how  things 


TtTE    UMTEMPRRED  WIMD 


ii7 


stood ;  so  putting  aside  my  own  feelings,  as  I  have  to  do 
very  often,  I  came  to  let  you  know  what  sort  of  a  fellow 
Homer  Wilson  is." 

"  To  think  of  it!"  said  Mrs.  White.  "  Truly  'this  life  is 
but  a  fleeting  show!'  Homer  Wilson!  What  he  has  said 
to  Ann  I  can't  say,  not  knowing;  but  as  for  sitting  up, 
whatever  sitting  uj)  was  done  was  done  irregular,  now 
and  then,  as  luck  chanced;  there  was  nothing  regular,  no 
promising,  no  conversational  lozenges,  no  buggy  drives. 
No,  Ann  ain't  no  call  to  be  worried,  though  it's  terrible  to 
think  how  he'll  suffer  when  he  knows  Ann  is  not  for  him, 
can  never  be  his;  no,  that  hope  is  gone — no.  Homer  Wil- 
son, thou  must  go  thy  ways  withouten  help  from  Ann." 

Mrs.  Deans  felt  exasperated.  "  Such  stuff  and  nonsense," 
she  thought.  "  Homer  Wilson  would  never  look  at  Ann 
White,  if  he  could  get  another  girl;  Ann  White,  indeed!" 
She  woke  from  her  silence  with  a  start. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  it's  no  worse,"  she  said;  "only  you'd 
better  tell  Ann  to  be  careful,  for  people  are  so  ready  with 
their  tongues." 

"Jest  let  me  hear  any  one  mention  Ann's  name  and 
his'n,"  said  Mrs.  AVhite;  "jest  let  me  hear  'em,  they'll 
have  to  prove  their  sayings!  *Tell  it  in  the  country,  tell  it 
in  the  court,'  is  my  motto.  I'd  never  stand  no  creepin', 
sneakin'  talk  about  my  folks !"  Here  she  was  interrupted  by 
her  son  Bing,  who  dashed  along  the  veranda,  flung  him- 
self down  on  the  open  door-step,  and  ejaculated : 

"  Bats  bring  bedbugs." 

"  What?"  said  Mrs.  Deans. 

"For  the  land's  sake,  Bing,  what  are  you  talking 
about?"  asked  his  mother. 

"  Bats,"  said  Bing,  chattering  his  words  out  with  his 
customary  rapidity.  "  Caught  one  in  the  back  bedroom 
between  the  shutter  and  the  window;  bites  like  the  rais- 


I 


m 


if 

J 


1 

111 


138 


THE    UjVTEMPE/^ED  WIND 


cliief ;  got  round  ears  tliat  stick  up — got  fur  ou  it — got 
leather  wings,  and  bedbugs  under  'em." 

"Well,  it  beats  all,"  said  his  mother,  and  Mrs.  Deans 
looked  at  him  curiousl}'.  But  keen  as  her  eyes  were,  they 
saw  no  change  in  him  from  the  boy  of  four  or  five  years 
back.  For  although  Bing  was  between  sixteen  and  seven- 
teen, he  was  no  larger  than  a  child  of  twelve :  an  ill-con- 
ditioned, withered,  hard  little  figure.  His  frame  was  spare, 
his  little  face,  with  its  high  cheek-bones,  was  always 
flushed,  as  though  fevered  by  a  dry  and  burning  heat;  his 
eyes  were  very  light  blue,  very  small,  very  cruel-looking. 
They  were  set  in  a  network  of  wrinkles.  His  hands  were 
horny  and  thin.  He  stayed  but  a  moment,  then  rushed 
off  as  quickly  as  he  had  come. 

"  Bing  don't  grow  much,"  said  Mrs.  Deans,  with  a  curious 
intonation  in  her  voice  and  a  covert  glance  at  Mrs.  White. 

Mrs.  White  looked  a  little  uncomfortable,  and  answered 
rather  hastily : 

"  No,  the  Whites  is  all  slow  growers.  Sam  grew  after  we 
wab  married,  and  Sam's  brother  grew  till  he  began  to  get 
bald!" 

Mrs.  Deans  preserved  a  disagreeable  silence. 

Young  Ann  entered  the  room  as  composedly  as  she  had 
left  it. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Ann?"  asked  her  mother,  a  lit- 
tle sharply. 

"  Fixing  curds  for  the  turkeys,"  said  the  girl,  placidly. 

"Well,  I  declare,  I'd  forgotten  it  entire!"  said  Mrs. 
White.  "  I  am  glad  to  find  that  you  have  such  a  thought- 
ful mind." 

"Oh,  ma!"  said  young  Ann,  in  an  acme  of  admiration. 
Mrs.  White  smiled,  as  who  should  say,  "  I  can't  restrain  my 
muse,"  and  continued  in  the  same  voice:  "  Shall  we  go  out 
and  see  the  feathered  tribe  eat  their  humble  portion?" 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


120 


Mrs.  Deans  rose  gladly,  and  out  they  went  into  the  sun- 
shine. It  was  one  of  those  days — so  perfect,  if  one  can 
enjoy  it  without  toil,  in  darkened  rooms  or  shady  nooks — so 
intolerable,  if  bodily  toil  beneath  the  blazing  sun  is 
demanded.  They  went  about  leisurely,  watched  the 
melancholy  young  turkeys  picking  daintily  at  their  food, 
encouraged  to  the  attack  by  the  solitary  little  chicken 
that  was  domiciled  in  their  coop.  When  the  turkey  eggs 
were  hatching,  c,  reful  poultry-keepers  put  one  hen  ^gg 
in  with  them,  so  that  the  chicken  might  "show  them  how 
to  eat."  This  one,  a  vigorous  little  black  Spanish  chick, 
certainly  performed  its  duties  nobly — its  compact  little 
body  darting  here  and  there  among  the  turkeys,  staggering 
about  on  their  long,  fragile  legs.  They  passed  Bing,  lying 
on  his  back  under  a  chestnut  tree. 

Mrs.  Deans  and  Mrs.  White  grew  very  affable  over  the 
poultry,  and  the  clouds  dropped  down,  with  the  dewy  dark- 
ness of  a  moonless  summer  night,  before  Mrs.  Deans  went 
home. 

She  was,  upon  the  whole,  dissatisfied  with  her  visit. 
Those  Whites  were  so  disgustingly  equable — so  ridicu- 
lously pleased  with  themselves — and  that  Bing  White !  of 
all  the  objects!  Mrs.  Deans  slept  at  last,  her  brows  drawn 
in  the  ill-natured  pose  her  thoughts  suggested. 

The  Whites  slumbered  peacefully,  save  where  Bing  lay, 
his  eyes  gleaming  in  the  dark,  as  he  dreamt  long,  waking 
dreams  of  ghastly  pleasures;  but  he  too  slept  at  last,  his 
fingers  twitching  as  he  slept,  his  lips  like  two  streaks  of 
blood. 

Myron  Holder  slept  the  too-sound  sleep  of  weariness,  her 
yellow-haired  baby  on  her  breast,  her  face  placid  and 
calmed  into  severe  lines  of  beauty. 

Homer  Wilson  tossed  and  flung  his  strong  arm  above  his 
head  and  murmured  a  woman's  name,  and  crossed  it  with 
9 


•fl 


•1« 


136 


THE   UiSTTEMPERED  WIND 


another,  clinched  his  upraised  hand;  and,   murmuring, 
slept.  *, 

Deeper  and  deeper  fell  the  silence ;  darker  and  darker 
grew  the  midnight;  heavier  and  heavier  sleep  sank  upon 
those  different  hearts;  until  they  all  beat  with  the  meas- 
ured cadence  of  oblivion — until,  albeit  delayed  by  devious 
paths  and  difficult  gates,  they  all  reached  the  poppied 
meadow  of  deep  sleep. 


f 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"  Lo !  where  is  the  beginning,  where  the  end, 
Of  living,  loving,  longing?" 

"  But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passed  joy? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it. 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme.  " 

It  was  late  summer.  The  whirring  of  reaping-machincE 
sounded  upon  every  side ;  the  roads  were  strewn  with  grain 
from  the  harvest  wagons;  the  air  was  murmurous  with 
insects;  the  ground,  parched  and  thirsty;  the  grass,  sere 
and  harsh;  the  leaves,  laden  with  dust;  the  birds  sang 
only  in  the  hours  of  earliest  dawn  or  in  the  twilight.  At 
noontide,  the  horses'  flanks  dripped  sweat,  and  the  men's 
faces  and  necks  were  blistered  with  the  heat.  The  cows 
stood  knee  deep  in  the  ponds,  and  flicked  at  the  flies  with 
their  long  tails.  The  ponds  were  low,  and  their  wide 
margins  of  mud  were  alive  with  tiny  frogs,  that  hopped 
about  in  thousands.  Upon  the  surface  of  the  water  was 
a  glaze  of  curious  animalculae,  as  red  as  blood.     Clumps  of 


"*i 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


X3I 


bullrushes  and  tasselled  tufts  of  reeds  grew  in  the  water, 
and  dragon-flies  flitted  tlirongli  the  green  stems,  like  dart' 
ing  flashes  of  blue  light.  The  Jamestown  children  called 
thv;m  darning-needles ;  and  being  assured  of  their  propen- 
sity for  sewing  one's  ears  up,  viewed  them  with  serious 
apprehension.  Often  the  birds,  their  breasts  panting  with 
heat,  came  to  the  ponds,  and,  fluttering  to  the  margin, 
splashed  the  water  over  their  little  backs.  They  were 
timid,  though,  and  liked  better  to  find  a  spot  where  the 
deep  imprint  of  a  hoof  was  filled  with  water  than  to  bathe 
in  the  ponds. 

The  little  streams  by  the  roadside  had  long  since  disap- 
peared, and  the  famous  stream  on  the  Wilson  farm,  that 
welled  up  from  the  "living  rock,"  stole  along  sosluggisldy 
that  it  scarce  stirred  the  watercresses  that  grew  along  its 
course. 

It  was  the  culmination  of  the  year's  endeavors :  a  hard 
season  on  man  and  ^^east;  from  day-dawn  to  dark  was 
heard  the  shouting  of  men,  the  trampling  of  horses,  the 
noise  of  machines — a  feverish  season,  the  fruition  of  a 
twelvemonth's  expectancy. 

"A  good  harvest,  and  fine  harvest  weather,"  said  one 
and  all. 

It  was  natural  that  these  weeks  of  incessant  labor  should 
tell  upon  the  men— indeed  many  of  them  looked  utterly 
worn  out,  with  red  rims  encircling  their  eyes,  and  faces 
from  which  each  drop  of  moisture  seemed  to  have  oozed ; 
but  Homer  Wilson,  during  the  excessive  heats  of  that 
summer,  looked  worse  than  any  of  his  neighbors;  His 
blue  jeans  hung  loose  upon  him ;  and  when  he  threw  aside 
his  smock,  his  shoulders  seemed  sharp  and  thin  under  his 
shirt.  The  outline  of  his  strong  jaw  was  clearly  defined, 
and  by  reason  of  the  lack  of  superfluous  flesh  the  contour 
of  his  head  was  strikingly  apparent,  and  suggested  almost 


?ll! 


m 


1 4 


132 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


unpleasantly  the  dominant  force  of  his  character.  Ilia 
eyes  were  sunken;  and  although  at  the  end  of  a  long  day's 
work  his  face  might  grow  ashen,  his  muscles  twitch  ner- 
vously, and  his  strong  fingers  tremble,  yet  the  fire  in  his 
eyes  remained  undimmed. 

lie  could  not  sleep.  At  night  he  used  to  go  to  the  lake — 
very  solitary  then,  when  the  fishing  season  was  past — and 
plunging  into  the  water  swim  far  out  in  the  moonlight. 
Sometimes  he  beat  his  arms  upon  the  water  at  each  stroke, 
striving  to  communicate  his  own  excitement  to  the  water, 
that  shone  up  with  such  maddening  placidity  to  the  stars. 
Sometimes  he  would  swim  out  until  the  shore  behind  him 
was  but  a  dimness,  seeming  as  unsubstantial  as  the  clouds; 
then,  turning  on  his  back,  he  would  float  there,  silent,  his 
eyes  searching  the  sky.     The  harvest  moon — 

"The  loveliest  moon  that  ever  silver 'd  o'er 
":  A  shell  for  Neptune's  goblet ;  she  did  soar 

So  passionately  bright, " 

floated  above  him.  Silence  was  upon  the  face  of  the 
water,  and  he,  in  the  embrace  of  the  wave  and  the  night, 
was  alone  indeed. 

"  The  lidless  train  of  planets"  passed  him  by ;  the  moon 
drew  a  mantle  of  mist  about  her  and  sailed  away.  A  pre- 
monitory shiver  crept  along  his  limbs;  he  reached  the  shore, 
chilled  to  the  bone;  but  the  heat  at  his  heart  still  parched 
him  with  thirst,  for  there  had  awakened  within  him  a 
great  longing  for  loving  eyes,  a  great  hunger  for  woman's 
touches,  a  great  dread  of  his  own  solitariness,  a  great  dis- 
gust of  himself.  lie  was  realizing  slowly,  numbly,  his  own 
decadence,  groping  for  some  rope  by  which  he  might  pull 
himself  up  out  of  the  abyss  into  which  he  had  fallen. 

It  is  doubtless  nobler  to  dispense  with  the  rope  and  climb 
out  of  the  pit  unaided;  the  rockiest  precipice  may  be 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


133 


hewn  into  painful  steps,  but  in  shifting  sands  wlio  can 
form  a  stairway? 

"Seems  to  me,  Homer,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson  one  day,  as 
she  stood  moulding  her  bread  in  the  early  morning,  "  seems 
to  me  you  need  something;  now  there's  yarbs  just  hanging 
up  and  spilin'  for  the  want  of  drinking;  there  ain't  any- 
thing more  buildin'  than  yarbs  is— 'The  yarbs  of  the  field,' 
it  says  in  the  Bible,  which  means  all  yarbs,  and  I  have 
them  mostly  there."  Here  she  glanced  at  the  long  row  of 
paper  bags  which,  tied  round  the  stems  of  the  dried  plants, 
hung  along  one  side  of  the  kitchen.  "Maybe  it's  ague 
workin'  on  you,  or  m'laria  you're  sickening  for;  I'll  make 
up  some  boneset  agin  noon  and " 

"Don't  make  any  brews  for  me,  mother,"  said  Homer. 
"I  don't  need  any;  it's  the  heat."  He  was  putting  oat- 
meal into  the  water-pails  for  the  men  to  take  to  the  field. 

"There,"  said  his  mother,  "I  knowed  it!  I'd  no  hope 
as  you'd  be  led  by  me  in  this  any  more'n  anything  else. 
Well,  it's  to  be  expected,  I  suppose.  I  know  who  the  nursin' 
and  settin'  up  will  fall  on,  but  I  kin  stand  it;  I've  had  to 
bear  with  a  good  deal  in  my  time,  and  the  Lord  '11  give  me 
strength  for  this,  too — but  it  does  seem  liard. "  She  sniffed, 
and,  wiping  away  an  imaginary  tear  with  her  floury  apron, 
left  a  smudge  of  white  upon  her  rubicund  countenance. 

"It  is  hard,"  said  Homer,  very  quietly,  and  went  out, 
pails  in  hand,  to  where  the  horses  stood  ready  harnessed  for 
the  day.  The  hired  men  were  sticking  branches  of  wal- 
nut leaves  on  their  bridles  and  in  the  backhands,  and 
bathing  their  flanks  and  breasts  with  smartweed  oil,  to 
keep  off  the  flies. 

Homer  gave  the  men  their  pail  of  oatmeal  and  water, 
and  went  to  his  own  team.  As  he  passed  his  horses,  he  put 
out  his  hand  to  take  the  nearest  one  by  the  bridle.  It 
started  and  swerved  nervously  from  his  extended  hand. 


134 


THE    UNTEMPHRED   WIND 


His  face  lowered  for  an  instant;  the  next  moment  it  flushed 
as  though  his  swartliy  cheek  felt  the  impatient  blow  ho 
liad  given  the  horse  the  day  before.  He  took  the  lid  off 
his  pail  and  let  the  horses  drink  the  contents,  giving  them 
the  pail  alternately;  each  pushed  its  nose  down  through 
the  cool  water  to  get  at  the  meal  at  the  bottom,  making  a 
great  sucking  as  it  did  so,  and  resisting  stubbornly  the 
efforts  of  the  other  to  usurp  the  pail.  They  made  short 
work  of  the  draught,  but  were  loath  to  give  up  the  pail, 
and  stretched  their  noses  after  Homer  as  he  hung  it 
upon  a  fence-stake.  He  took  their  bridles  and  proceeded 
to  the  field,  their  harness-chains  clinking,  the  leaves  on 
their  heads  and  backs  rustling,  their  noses  quivering  as 
they  licked  at  the  grains  of  oatmeal  sticking  to  their  bits. 

Homer  was  reaping  the  west  field.  A  forty-acre  expanse 
of  growing  grain  it  had  been  a  few  ^  ys  before,  but  now 
it  was  all  down  save  a  little  square  he  hollow,  at  one 
corner  of  which  stood  the  self-binder,  an  ungainly  affair, 
with  its  windmill-like  arrangement  for  pushing  the 
sheaves  along. 

The  shocks  of  grain  stood  round  and  round  tl.  Is  square  of 
standing  wheat,  as  if  they  fain  would  protect  it  from  the 
fate  that  had  laid  them  low ;  but  Homer  and  his  horses 
threaded  their  ranks,  and  soon  the  lumbering  machine  was 
in  motion,  leaving  a  track  of  prostrate  sheaves  that  pres- 
ently the  men  would  take  in  pairs,  and,  putting  eight 
together,  leave  them  for  the  sun  to  dry. 

Through  all  that  long  forenoon  Homer  thought  of  his 
mother.     It  was  not  "  yarb  tea"  he  needed,  but 

"  To  take  in  drauglits  of  life  from  the  gold  fount 
Of  kind  and  passionate  looks.  " 

The  heat  grew  intense.  The  horses  were  panting,  the 
ew^at  lathering  from  beneath  the  harness-straps;  a  stifling 


""""ITT'^mIIU'iH^WI 


i 


THE    UNTEMPEKED  H'/ND 


«35 


diiet  was  rising  from  tlio  wlieels  and  covering  Homer's  face 
with  a  grayish  veil;  the  grasshoppers  lied  in  thousands 
before  the  machine;  the  grain  gleamed  dizzily  golden  in 
the  sun.  It  was  just  the  color  of  hvr  hair — perhaps  the 
feverishness  of  the  heat  made  the  thought  unpleasant. 
That  hair  had  been  bright  enough  to  drive  him  almost 
mad,  but  it  was  not  brightness  ho  wanted  now,  nor  gayety, 
nor  laughter;  he  wanted  the  benison  of  calm  eyes,  the 
shadow  of  cool  hair,  the  tenderness  of  tears,  the  strength 
of  a  tried  soul,  and  out  of  this  chaos  of  longing  was  slowly 
evolved  a  figure. 

Beginning  with  a  dark  cloud,  that  hovered  for  a  time 
before  him  and  then  floated  away  fragment  by  fragment 
till  all  was  gone  save  enough  to  halo  round  a  pale  and 
steadfast  face,  with  dark  locks  of  hair,  and  the  face  at 
first  aly  outlined  by  the  curving  tresses,  gradually  assumed 
features — dark  eyes  and 

"  most  tender  brows, 
Meant  for  men's  lips,  to  make  them  glad  of  God  * 

Who  gives  them  such  to  kiss" — 

pale,  sorrowful  lips,  and  a  cliin  which  told  of  strength  to 
endure,  yet  pleaded  most  eloquently  against  a  test ;  nad  then 
came  patient  shoulders  and  the  bosom  of  a  mother.  He 
gazed  at  this  figure  long — or  so  it  seemed.  It  eased  his 
eyes,  and  the  heat  was  really  blinding;  even  this  vision 
could  not  blot  it  out.  He  closed  his  eyes.  The  next 
moment  frightful  sounds  confused  his  ears,  he  felt  a 
sharp  pain  in  his  head,  heard  a  cry — surely  from  the. lips 
he  had  just  seen  in  his  waking  dream.  .  .  .  With  a  great 
gasp.  Homer  Wilson  came  back  from  his  momentary  swoon 
to  find  himself  lying  on  the  ground,  his  machine  a  fow 
yards  in  advance,  and  Myron  Holder  bending  over  him, 
>Yith  tears  raining  down  h^r  white  facjQ, 


136 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


"Oh,  Homer — Homer,"  she  cried," are  you  killed?" 

"What  is  it,  Myron?"  he  said,  and  tried  to  put  his 
hand  to  where  the  pain  was — but  failing  to  reach  his  head, 
it  faltered  and  fell  upon  one  of  Myron's  arms,  over  which  it 
closed.  He  realized  that  her  arm  was  under  his  head, 
and  that  he  was  leaning  heavily  upon  her.  He  tried  to 
gather  himself  together,  but  one  of  his  feet  was  held  fast. 
He  looked  at  her  inquiringly.  At  that  moment  she  was  the 
source  of  life — knowledge — everything  to  him.  The  blood 
was  streaming  from  a  cut  in  his  temple.  She  replied  to 
his  unspoken  question  promptly. 

"  The  reins  are  tangled  round  your  feet,"  she  said.  "  Oh, 
I  thought  I  couldn't  get  here  in  time!  I  thought  they 
would  surely  drag  you  to  death ;  and  you  fell  so  near  the 

wheels,  I "  here  she  gave  way  to  a  paroxysm  of  tears. 

She  tried  to  stifle  them.  The  sight  set  Homer's  manhood 
for  a  moment  again  upon  its  throne.  He  untied  the  neck- 
erchief he  wore,  clumsily  dried  her  tears,  and  then 
applied  it  to  his  own  head.  She  rose.  Just  then  two 
men  came  in  sight ;  they  had  been  on  their  way  home  to 
dinner.  Turning  at  the  gate,  ^hey  had  seen  something  was 
wrong,  and  hastened  back.  As  they  approached,  Myron 
snatched  up  her  sunbonnet  from  where  it  had  fallen  and 
tied  it  on  with  trembling  fingers. 

"  How  was  it.  Homer?  What's  up?"  called  the  men  as 
they  drew  near.  Homer's  evanescent  strength  was  gone ; 
he  was  supporting  himself  on  one  elbow,  upon  which  he 
seemed  to  be  whirling,  as  on  a  pivot.  He  looked  at  Myron, 
and  she  answered  for  him : 

"  I  was  looking  for  Mrs.  Deans'  turkeys;  they've 
strayed,"  she  said.  "  As  I  came  over  the  knoll,  I  saw  him 
drop  the  reins  and  fall;  I  ran  as  hard  as  I  could  and 
BtoT)ped  the  horses;  they  were  dragging  him;  he  must 
ha  V  fj  struck  on  a  stone  when  he  fell, "    She  paused ;  her  voice 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


13: 


was  tienibliiig.  "It's  the  sun,"  she  said;  and,  turning, 
was  over  the  crest  of  the  knoll,  her  sunbonnet  disap- 
pearing among  the  stacks  on  the  opposite  side,  before  the 
men  made  any  comment. 

As  she  disappeared.  Homer's  long-tried  elbow  gave  way, 
and  his  head  sank  upon  the  stubble. 

The  men  untied  the  leather  rein  from  his  foot,  tied  up 
his  head  as  well  as  they  could,  steadied  him  as  he  rose  to 
his  feet,  and  helped  him  to  mount  the  gray  horse. 

A  day's  rest  set  him  right.  The  touch  of  sunstroke  had 
been  neutralized  by  the  cut,  whoso  bleeding  had  relieved 
the  pressure  on  the  brain  and  in  a  measure  from  his  heart, 
for  he  no  longer  battled  with  intangible  desires  and  mad- 
dening uncertainties  of  purpose;  he  yearned  with  his 
whole  heart  for  the  clasp  of  Myron's  Holder's  arms. 

His  mother  heard  the  story  of  his  accident  and  by  whom 
a  much  more  serious  one  was  averted.  She  was  thoroughly 
enraged  and  excited.  She  harped  upon  the  one  string 
until  Homer's  new-found  store  of  patience  reached  an  end, 
and  he  was  fain  to  betake  himself  out  of  doors  in  the 
evenings  until  sleep  stilled  his  mother's  tongue. 

It  was  a  week  or  so  after  his  fall — the  wound  on  his 
temple  had  already  healed  in  the  wholesome  skin — Avhen, 
one  night  as  dusk  fell,  he  was  beset  with  desire  to  see 
Myron.  The  vision  ho  had  had  in  tlie  field  returned  to 
him  often  now;  that  strange  vision — com2)ound  of  reality 
and  dream,  part  wrought  of  the  needs  of  his  own  heart, 
pai't  woven  of  the  glimpses  his  reeling  eyes  caught  of  tlie 
woman's  figure  in  the  distance.  As  lie  liad  emerged  •from 
the  chaos  of  indefinite  yearnings  to  a  definito  desire,  so 
he  had  put  aside  all  women  for  one  womaii ;  to  his  credit 
be  it  told,  he  tliought  of  INIyrou  Holder  as  she  was — the 
disgraced  motli^r  of  a  fatherle;^s  child.  lie  could  draw  no 
fine  distinction  b(?tweeu  letter  and  spirit,  deduce  no  hair- 


i- 


k  If 


^ifK 


w^-  ri 
Wa  1 

P8} 


'!  n 


I 


138 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


splitting  arguments  to  bear  out  his  views,  being  only  a 
ror^h  countryman,  unused  to  subtle  mental  processes.  But 
he  decided  for  himself  that  it  was  not  muttered  rites  and 
outward  forms  that  made  the  mother,  but  all  the  dolorous 
agonies  of  maternity.  Which  of  them  had  this  woman  not 
endured?  What  jot  or  tittle  of  woman's  horrible  heritage 
had  not  been  hers?    And  what  more  holy  than  a  mother? 

"  God  knows,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  strode  along  that 
night  to  the  village,  "a  woman  needs  to  be  pretty  bad 
before  she's  not  good  enough  for  the  average  man!"  He 
had  reached  the  fence  round  the  Holder  cottage — that 
fence  in  which  the  gaps  grew  greater  and  greater  as  old 
Mrs.  Holder  used  the  pickets  for  kindling-wood — and  was 
just  about  to  enter  quietly,  when  Gamaliel  Deans  drove  up. 
He  recognized  Homer  and  called  out : 

"  Hi,  there!  Ho!     What  are  you  lookin'  for?" 

"A  lift  out  to  old  Carroll's,"  said  Homer  promptly, 
cursing  Gamaliel  in  his  heart. 

"Well,  I'm  yer  man,  then,"  said  Oamaliel.  "I'm  just 
goin'  for  the  vet.     The  sorrel  mare's  bad — sunstroke." 

"  Too  bad,"  said  Homer,  springing  into  the  light  wagon. 
"  Who  was  driving  her?" 

"I  was — worse  luck,"  said  Gamaliel,  sulkily.  "I  seen 
her  stagger,  but  I  thought  she  could  make  it  to  the  end 
of  the  swathe ;  but  she  dropped  in  her  tracks,  and  there 
she's  laid  since,  with  us  pouring  water  on  her  head.  It 
don't  seem  to  do  her  much  good,  though,  and  she  was 
beginning  to  kick  out  when  I  hitched  up  and  started." 

"Well,"  said  Homer,  and  he  had  a  grim  satisfaction  in 
saying  it,  "  if  she  was  beginning  to  strike  out,  you  may  as 
well  go  home,  for  she'll  die!" 

"  I  guess  she  will,"  said  Gamaliel,  philosophically;  "but 
things  was  gettin'  pretty  hot  round  there,  and  I  thought 
it  safe  to  make  tracks.    Mann's  in  a  regular  ramp  over  iU" 


m" 


THE   UNTEMPERED   WIND 


130 


"No  wonder,"  said  Ilomor  severely;  " she's  n,  fine  mare." 

The  twinkling  lights  of  Mr.  Carroirs  window  were  in 
view.  They  neared  them  swiftly.  Gamaliel  half-pulled 
up  and  Homer  sprang  out. 

"  So  'long !"  said  Gamaliel.  "  This  is  a  matter  of  life  and 
death,  ye  know,"  he  added,  chuckling  at  his  own  wit.  Ho 
drove  on  quickly,  speculating  as  to  whether  the  mare  was 
dead.     She  was. 

Homer  meanwhile  stood  a  moment  irresolute,  as  the 
wagon  disappeared.  He  had  spoken  upon  impulse  when, 
in  answer  to  Gamaliel's  inquiry,  he  said  he  was  going  to 
Mr.  Carroll's.  It  was  the  first  name  that  entered  his 
head,  and  chosen  for  that  reason. 

Homer  had  once  gone  a  great  deal  to  old  Mr.  Carroll's, 
but  never  had  resumed  the  visits  since  his  return  to  the- 
farm.  He  shrank  morbidly  from  observation  then,  and  old 
Mr.  Carroll's  eyes  were  sharp.  This  night,  however,  he 
decided  to  go  in ;  he  feared  no  man's  eyes  now.  He  rapped 
at  the  door  and  waited.  He  could  hear  the  tapping  of  the 
old  man's  cane,  then  saw  a  light  beneath  the  door,  as  Mr. 
Ca  roll  called  out  in  well-rounded  tones  for  so  old  a  man: 

"Who  goes  there?" 

"  Homer  Wilson !"  shouted  Homer. 

"Pass  Homer  Wilson!"  said  the  old  soldier,  and  pulling 
back  the  simple  bolt,  let  his  visitor  enter.  Through  a 
dusky  narrow  hall,  to  a  room  with  very  heavy  wooden  raft- 
ers and  whitewashed  walls,  he  led  the  way. 

Those  walls  were  a  great  saving  of  paper  to  him,  Mr. 
Carroll  was  wont  to  say;  and  that  there  was  reason  in  his 
statement  could  be  readily  seen,  for  all  the  farm 
accounts,  the  taxes,  the  mill  accounts,  the  dates  of  any 
events  he  wished  to  remember,  with  any  stray  memorandum 
of  a  chance  reflection  or  idea  he  wished  to  see  in  words, 
were  pencilled  upon  the  walls. 


f 


«  » 

'   I 


140 


THE    UNTEMPEkED  WIKD 


On  the  last  iiiglit  of  the  old  year,  Mr.  Carroll  hud  the 
Willis  whitewashed,  and  began  a  "clean  sheet  with  fonr  big 
j)ages,"  as  he  said,  every  New- Year's. 

One  of  his  i)leasantest  reflections  was  that  he  had  never 
yet  needed  to  begin  the  new  year  with  any  debts  staring 
him  in  the  face,  "  and  no  one  owing  me,  either,"  he  would 
say,  as  though  that  too  were  a  triumph ;  but  certain  people 
said  old  Mr.  Carroll  was  a  fool  in  this ;  he  was  so  set  on 
carrying  out  his  whim  that  he  whitewashed  over  ac- 
counts that  were  still  due  him,  because,  of  course,  it  was 
for  his  own  selfish  gratification,  and  not  from  any  gener- 
osity that  ho  forgave  certain  needy  families  the  little  debts 
they  owed  for  flour,  and  hams,  and  chicken-feed ! 

Mrs.  Deans  considered  this  sinful;  and,  impelled  by  her 
usual  sense  of  self-sacrificing  duty,  spoke  to  him  upon  the 
subject  once,  saying,  to  clinch  her  argument,  that  "  he'd 
have  more  money  for  foreign  missions,  if  he  didn't  throw 
his  substance  away  on  those  miserable,  ailing,  complaining 
paupers  over  Stediiam  way."  But  Carroll  had  speedily 
brought  the  discussion  to  a  close  by  demanding,  with  some 
heat,  what  possible  interest  he  could  have  in  "  a  batch  of 
naked  niggers,  ma'am" — an  irreverent  way  of  referring  to 
the  interesting  heathen,  surely. 

"Sit  down.  Homer;  sit  down!"  said  his  host,  pushing  a 
chair  toward  him  with  a  gesture  of  genuine  hospitality ; 
^*sit  down,  and  we'll  have  a  glass  of  something." 

lie  went  to  a  cupboard,  whose  diamond-shaped  glass 
panes  were  backed  by  faded  green  silk,  produced  an  old- 
fashioned  heavy  glass  decanter,  two  glasses,  some  sugar 
and  old  silver  spoons — talking  all  the  time.  His  lameness 
necessitated  several  trips  to  the  cupboard,  and  as  he 
brought  each  object  and  set  it  down  on  the  table  he 
would  pause  a  moment,  feign  a  start,  and  say — "  Tut — 
tut — how  forgetful  I  ami"   and  jauntily  journey  back, 


'litE    UNfEMPERiiD   WIND 


.it 


Until  he  had  all  the  requisites  for  a  brewing  of  hot  whis- 
key. So  well  he  did  the  little  by-play  that  he  ul^^ost  be- 
lieved himself  that  it  was  forgetfulness  that  caused  him 
to  make  repeated  trips  for  the  few  articles  and  not  the 
necessity  for  a  cane,  which  left  him  only  one  free  hand. 

"  A  cold  drink  for  a  cold  day,  and  a  hot  drink  for  a  hot 
day;  that's  my  idea,"  said  the  old  man,  settling  himself 
into  his  chair  with  a  suppressed  twinge  as  he  twisted  his 
lame  leg.  "  So  now,  you  put  a  match  to  the  fire,  and  we'll 
see  if  it's  a  good  one." 

Homer  lit  the  fire,  already  laid,  and  the  copper  kettle 
placed  upon  the  stove  soon  began  to  sing.  Homer  had 
talked  readily  enough  at  first,  but  he  was  growing  absent- 
minded,  his  thoughts  wandering  back  to  that  dilapidated 
cottage  in  the  village.  Presently  the  glasses  of  hot  whis- 
key steamed  between  them.  During  the  process  of  con- 
coction Mr.  Carroll  related,  with  many  strong  expressions 
and  much  richness  of  detail,  the  idiocy  of  Male  Deans,  by 
whom  he  had  sent  to  town  for  lump  sugar.  Lump  sugar 
was  an  unknown  commodity  to  Male,  and  he  insisted  there 
was  no  such  thing,  and  declared  Mr.  Carroll  couldn't  "get 
the  laugh  on  him  that  way. "  At  last  Mr.  Carroll  resorted 
to  strategy.  He  wrote  out  a  list  of  things  he  wanted  from 
the  grocery  store,  and  smuggling  loaf  sugar  in  at  the  bottom 
of  the  list,  gave  it  to  Male  and  told  him  the  grocery  man 
would  have  all  ready  for  him  as  he  passed  from  the  mill. 
So  he  got  the  lump  sugar.  Homer  was  a  little  hazy  himself 
as  to  the  existence  of,  or  necessity  for,  lump  sugar,  but 
evidently  it  was  of  vital  import  to  Mr.  Carroll. 

"  Yes,"  the  old  man  said,  splashing  another  lump  into  his 
second  glass  of  hot  whiskey,  "  the  ass!  I've  no.  doubt  he'd 
put  filthy  loose  sugar  in  this — floor-sweepings."  Then 
came  silence.  Homer  felt  he  must  say  something;  he  cast 
about  for  a  subject;  an  incident  of  the  day  suggested  itself: 


^1 


4 


r 


'P* 


I 

i 


t42 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


"Wc  killed  a  copperhead  snake  in  the  rye,  to-day,"  he 
Baid ;  "  the  first  I've  seen  in  years.  I  was  cutting  a  road 
found  the  field  for  the  machine  with  the  cradle,  and  it 
darted  at  me.  I  killed  it  with  a  fence-rail.  It  was  an  ugly 
beggar,  and  a  good  three-foot  long." 

**  A  snake!"  said  old  Carroll.  "A  snake!  There's  many 
kinds  of  snakes.  Copperheads  are  dangerous,  and  rattle- 
snakes are,  but  there's  worse  snakes  than  either.  You 
killed  it  with  a  stick?  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  the  man 
1  knew  who  killed  so  many  snakes?" 

"No,"  said  Homer,  looking  at  him,  for  his  tone  was 
strange.     "No.     Who  was  he?" 

"He  was  a  man,"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  looking  fixedly  at 
his  guest,  "  he  was  a  man  that  overcame  many  snakes  of 
many  different  kinds,  and  how  he  fared  at  last  I'll  tell 
you." 

He  rose,  snuffed  the  two  candles,  snipping  off  their 
wicks  adroitly  with  a  pair  of  old  brass  snuffers,  and  sat 
down,  again  fixing  his  gaze  upon  Homer's  face.  The  tin- 
derwood  fire  in  the  stove  had  died  away  to  a  mere  glow  of 
crisping  embers;  the  kettle  sang  in  dying  cadence;  its 
steam  and  the  steam  from  the  glasses  floated  athwart 
Homer's  vision  of  Mr.  Carroll's  body,  seeming  to  give 
greater  keenness  to  the  alert  face,  and  the  eyes  which, 
always  bright,  seemed  to  glint  to-night  with  absolute 
brilliancy. 

"It  was  sometime  ago,"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  "that  this 
man  I  speak  of  used  to  kill  the  snakes.  He  had  a  peculiar 
dislike  to  all  snakes,  for  a  friend  of  his  had  had  the  life 
squeezed  out  of  him  in  the  folds  of  a  serpent,  and  another 
friend  had  been  bitten  by  one,  so  that  he  too  died,  having 
first  gone  mad;  and  another  had  the  very  breath  of  life 
sucked  from  him  by  a  sly  snake,  so  that  he  died — died 
himself,   body  and  soul,  and    never  knew    it:  only  his 


1 


THE   VNTEMPEkED  WIND 


143 


friends  saw  the  corpse  of  his  ohl  self,  and  knew  their 
friend  to  be  gone  from  their  midst  and  only  his  sem- 
blance left,  and  they  rejoiced  much  when  at  last  this  sem- 
blance died  also,  and  they  could  bury  it  decently,  like 
other  corpses. 

"  There  was  no  wonder  my  friend  hated  snakes. 

"  He  waged  war  upon  them;  and  it  was  his  method 
when  he  found  one,  to  take  it  by  the  tail  and,  with  a 
sudden  jerk,  snap  its  head  off.  He  killed  a  great  many 
in  this  way;  and  it  was  always  his  habit  to  search  for 
the  head.  lie  longed  to  look  into  the  eyes,  and  learn 
wherein  the  power  lay  by  which  they  deceived  and 
deluded  men  until  they  stung  them;  but  he  never  could 
find  the  head.  Between  disappointment  at  this,  and 
despair  because  the  more  snakes  he  destroyed  the  more 
there  seemed  to  be,  my  friend  grew  very  sad.  He  had  a 
horrible  pain  at  his  iieart  too,  that  no  drug  could  ease. 
Time  went  on  and  the  pain  grew  no  better — it  even  shot 
through  his  head  sometimes;  but  my  friend  persevered, 
and  no  snake  escaped  him. 

"Well,  one  day  he  was  walking  in  his  garden,  under  his 
own  trees,  within  his  own  walls,  where  it  would  be  thought 
no  snake  could  come,  when  a  snake,  more  brilliant  in  color 
than  any  he  had  ever  seen,  crossed  his  path.  For  the  first 
time,  he  understood  a  little  of  the  feeling  that  makes  a 
man  spare  a  snake  because  it  is  beautiful ;  but  he  put  the 
thought  from  him,  and,  catching  it  by  the  tail,  jerked  off 
its  head  and  flung  aside  the  body.  Then  he  began  to 
search  for  the  head,  feeling  if  he  could  but  look  into  the 
jewel  eyes  of  that  snake  that  all  the  mystery  of  men's 
delusions  would  be  revealed  to  him;  and,  knowing  the 
secret  of  their  delusions,  surely  he  could  dispel  them. 

"He  bent  to  his  search,  but  felt  such  a  great  pain  in 
his  heart  that  he  stood  up,  casting  his  eyes  down  upon 


I 

I 


■t 


'.*<! 


1  M 


■  \  ■  j 

^1 


^ 


Mif 


144 


THE    UNTRMPERED  JF/A'T) 


liimself,  for  tlio  pain  wus  so  great  it  seemed  his  heart 
would  burst  the  bonds  of  liis  ribs;  and  as  lie  looked,  he 
saw  the  swelled  eyes  and  forked  tongue  of  the  snake's 
head,  for  it  had  fastened  on  his  breast  above  his  heart.  He 
looked  again ;  it  was  gone.  With  wild  haste,  he  tore  off  his 
coat. 

"  It  was  not  there.  His  waistcoat — no  sign  of  it.  He 
dragged  his  clothing  from  him  till  he  stood  like  Adam  in 
the  garden,  and  then  he  knew  that  that  snake's  head  and 
all  the  others  were  in  his  own  heart.  Standing  naked  in 
his  garden,  he  felt  the  snakes  in  his  heart,  and  knew  that 
his  labor  for  mankind  was  vain — knew  that  not  till  he  could 
rend  and  read  his  own  living  heart  would  he  understand 
and  dispel  the  delusions  of  men.  The  disappointment 
made  him  mad.  It  was  the  disappointment,  nothing  else — 
not  the  pain  of  the  snakes,  for  many  men  have  snakes  in 
their  breasts,  she  snakes,  that  amuse  themselves  by  seeing 
how  tight  they  can  tie  their  hair  about  the  heart." 

The  old  man  drained  his  glass.  Homer  was  glad  there 
was  a  little  left  in  his  tumbler — he  swallowed  it  hastily. 

"  Rattlesnake  oil  is  a  grand  thing  for  weak  eyes,"  Mr. 
Carroll  said,  composedly;  "and  for  horses'  eyes  it  hasn't 
any  equal." 

"That's  true,"  said  Homer,  "but  ifspretty  expensive — 
five  dollars  an  ounce." 

"Yes,"  returned  his  host,  "old  Dargo  used  to  try  out 
the  oil  and  then  eat  the  cracklings;  but  the  best  oil  for 
medicine  is  got  after  letting  the  snake  hang  a  while." 

"So  they  say,"  said  Homer;  "but  I  never  could  bring 
myself  to  have  anything  more  to  do  with  a  snake  than  to 
smash  it  with  the  first  thing  I  could  catch  hold  of." 

They  talked  on  a  little  longer,  then  Homer  rose.  "  I 
must  be  getting  along,"  he  said;  "I'ye  quite  a  walk 
before  me." 


.  4 


■I  \ 


"LOOK   AT  IT,      IIF.   SAID,    "LOOK   AT   IT  WELL! 


I" 


H 


J 


Jf  ISi 


;i^" 


THE   UNTEMPEKED   WIND 


»45 


"  Well,  come  back  soon,"  said  Mr.  Carroll,  ligliting  him 
to  the  door  with  a  wavering  candle.  Homer  had  his  hand 
on  the  latch,  when  the  old  man  said  suddenly: 

"  Hold  the  candle  a  "linute."  lie  felt  in  his  pocket,  and 
drew  forth  a  small  bla(;k  case,  opened  it,  and  thrust  it 
before  Homer's  eyes.  "Look  at  it,"  he  said,  "look  at  it 
well,  and  then  you'll  know  a  snake  the  next  time  you  see 
one — one  of  the  dangerous  kind,  not  a  simple  copper- 
head, or  a  gentle  rattler."  In  the  midst  of  the  glow  of  a 
golden  background,  dimmed  here  and  there  by  a  pearl, 
was  a  painted  face— fair  enough  to  woo  a  king,  false 
enough  to  sell  a  kingdom.  Homer  looked,  and  somehow 
understood  all  its  beauty  and  treachery. 

Mr.  Carroll  shut  the  case  with  a  snap,  took  the  candle, 
and  Homer  let  himself  out. 

"  Good-night,  Homer,"  called  the  old  man.  "  Come  back 
soon." 

"Good-night.  I  will,"  said  Homer,  and  the  door  closed 
between  them. 


"1, 


.1  I 


CHAPTER  XITI. 


"  Pleasure  is  oft  a  visitant,  but  pain 
Clings  cruelly  to  us — " 

"  Whoso  encamps 
To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight— 
Oh,  what  a  wretch  is  he  ! " 

Church  was  in.  That  meant  that  all  the  respected  and 
self-respecting  peoi)le  of  Jamestown  had  come  forth,  mor- 
ally and  physically  clothed  in  their  best,  and  bestowed 
themselves  as  comfortably  as  circumstances  permitted  V[\ 
the  wooden  pews  of  Jamestown's  only  church. 
19 


I4^t 


ritE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


From  the  prciicher's  dosk,  the  coiigregution  looked  like 
ji  huiiuin  theme  witli  variations,  the  original  w^o/// being 
a  stolid,  expressionless  mask  of  llesh,  unanimated,  immo- 
bile,  vvitli  rudely  (jarvcn  features,  and  no  decided  tints. 
Upon  this  primitive  scale  nature  had  rung  every  change 
her  shackled  hands  could  compass;  but  between  the  high- 
est note,  struck  perhaps  in  Ossie  Annie  Abbie  Maria 
Willie,  whose  face  was  inoftensive,  and  the  lowest  personi- 
lied  by  old  Ann  Lemon,  whose  countenance  was  a  mere 
mass  of  flesh,  there  was  but  a  short  thought.  The  men 
were  sandy-haired,  meagre,  undersized;  or  heavy,  florid, 
dark,  with  lack-lustre  eyes  and  coarse  lips. 

It  was  a  delightful  autumnal  day — a  djiy  more  provoca- 
tive of  tears  than  laughter,  more  suggestive  of  retrospect 
than  anticipation;  a  «lay  to  dream  old  dreams,  feel  old 
heartaches,  read  old  books,  tell  old  tales,  hear  bygone 
singing,  recall  lost  voices;  a  pure,  sweet  day — the  air  rare- 
fled  by  the  first  touch  of  frost;  a  day,  in  short,  to  remind 
one  of  the  sweet,  the  sad,  the  strange  in  life;  but  withal,  a 
day  to  perfect  the  tint  on  the  apples,  mellow  the  juices  of 
the  late  grapes,  and  promising  a  "fine  spell  of  good  weather 
for  the  fall  ;loughing,"  as  each  male  member  of  the  con- 
gregation had  said  to  each  other  male  member  that  morn- 
ing. 

Mother  Earth  got  but  little  rest  at  the  hands  of 
these  eager  seekers.  Hardly  had  her  bosom  been  shorn  of 
its  crop  of  a  yellow  grain  before  the  keen  ploughshares 
were  again  j lunged  into  the  soil  and  it  was  lacerated 
afresh,  and  the  man  looked  best  content  that  morning 
behind  whose  plough  there  lay  the  greatest  number  of  brown 
furrows,  for  the  fall  ploughing  was  of  great  furtherance 
when  the  rush  of  the  spring  came  on;  so  the  horses, 
loosed  from  the  lumbering  reaping  machine,  were  yoked 
to  the  plough,  that  most  graceful  of  all  farmer's  implements, 


i 


THE  L'XTEMrEUi-.n  w'lxn 


147 


\ 


and  strained  at  tluMr  collars  an  it  turned  the  furrow,  seiul- 
ing  its  earthy  frai^ranco  to  mingle  with  the  fruity  savor 
from  the  vineyards. 

Light  mists,  proijhetic  of  the  later  haze,  lloated  in 
shreds  and  wisps  across  the  fields,  and  gathered  and  li)i- 
gered  ahout  the  trunks   of   the    trees    in    the    woodland. 

The  hirds  were  silent,  and  daily  V-shaped  ilights  of 
ducks  and  wild  geese  passed  over  the  village,  winging 
their  way  to  the  south. 

Service  went  on  in  the  church,  to  the  staid  and  sedate 
measure  of  well-understood  and  long-established  usage. 

Ann  Lemon  wtw  nodding  off  the  intoxication  of  the 
night  before  in  a  jiew  well  to  the  front.  Ann  felt  she 
needed  to  assert  her  religious  feelings  lest  there  be  some 
doubt  of  their  existence. 

Behind  her  sat  Mr.  and  Mrs.  White,  young  Ann,  and 
Bing — the  first  three  mentioned  of  the  family  looking  as 
gloomy  and  downcast  as  their  self-complacency  permitted. 
Bing  blinked  wickedly  in  his  corner,  making  sly  swoops  at 
the  sluggish  flies,  and  tearing  them  in  bits  when  ho  cap- 
.  tured  any. 

Across  the  aisle  Clem  Humphries  flourished.  Clem  was 
one  of  those  world-worn  wrecks  that  are  cast  away  and 
left  stranded  in  nearly  every  small  village  the  world  over. 
How  they  drift  there  no  one  knows;  whence  they  come 
no  one  cares;  why  they  stay  they  could  not  tell  them- 
selves. Fate  rattles  us  all  in  her  dice-box,  and  we  lie  where 
we  fall. 

Clem  was  by  turns  a  fisherman,  Mr.  Muir's  assistant, 
a  knife-grinder,  a  peddler;  he  had  superior  skill  in 
making  axe-handles,  and  out  of  wire  he  could  twist  and 
twine  the  cunningest  of  traps.  He  was  acute  and  wise 
in  his  day  and  generation — at  heart  a  scoffing  old  vaga- 
bond ;  yet  he  professed  to  be  most  religious,  and  evidenced 


II 


148 


THE    UN  TEMP  EKED   WIND 


it  in  tlio  siimc  way  as  tho  peoi)lo  about  him  did,  by 
going  to  church  with  painful  regularity,  where  he  sat,  a 
sore  rock  of  offence  to  Mrs.  Deans,  for  Clem  was  fain  to 
relieve  the  tedium  of  the  service  and  aggravatvi  Mrs. 
Deans  (whom  he  hated)  by  a  succession  of  tricks  that 
irritated  her  almost  beyond  endurance. 

Mrs.  Deans  sat  immediately  behind  Clem,  and  pursed 
her  already  pursed-up  mouth,  sniffed  her  already  ^iinched- 
in  nose,  and  glared  at  him  fiercely  from  her  chronically 
inflamed  eye,  but  all  to  no  effect.  He  was  full  of  offence, 
and  Mrs.  Deans  had  several  times  accused  him  in  after- 
meeting  of  "conduct  misbecoming  in  a  Christiar,"  but 
Clem  had  answered  to  the  charge  so  volubly,  so  diplomati- 
cally, so  humbly  that  the  rest  of  the  church  members, 
and  particularly  Mr.  Prew,  the  minister  (to  whom  Clem 
always  ostentatiously  removed  his  hat),  decided  that  Mrs. 
Deans  had  "  a  pick"  at  Clem,  and  regretted  a  little  that  such 
a  pious  woman  should  stain  her  noble  record  by  such  com- 
plaints as  she  made  against  this  humble  follower. 

lie  had  an  evil  habit  of  setting  his  stout  stick  upright 
beside  him  in  the  pew,  balancing  it  with  a  skill  all  the  boys 
of  Jamestown  emulated  in  vain,  and  then  placing  his  hat 
upon  it,  so  that  in  full  sight  of  the  congregation,  it  stood 
perilously  balanced,  but  never  falling,  during  the  entire 
time  of  service, 

A  strange  minister  had  once  been  sadly  disconcerted  by 
the  sight  of  the  immovable  hat  in  that  pew.  He  could 
see  nothing  of  what  supported  it,  and  could  hardly  restrain 
his  wrath  at  the  irreverence  of  the  dwarfish  individual  who 
sat  covered  in  the  Lord's  house.  Animated  by  the  thought, 
ho  seized  the  sword  of  the  Spirit  and  began  to  fight  against 
this  evil  one.  He  dilated  upon  the  perils  of  irreverence 
until  the  majonty  of  his  listeners  dared  hardly  breathe. 
Hq  thundered  forth  thq  denunciation  pf  tl^Q  wicked  an4 


mm 


n 


THE   UNTEMPERRD  WIND 


149 


stubborn  of  heart  nixtil  all  the  women  wept,  led  by  Ar.n 
Lemon,  who,  by  reason  of  excessive  piety  and  much  gin, 
had  no  nervea  left  at  all,  and  who  showed  her  emotion  by 
a  series  of  subdued  howls.  He  exhausted  vituperation  and 
himself,  and  sat  down — a  beaten  man,  for  the  hat  was 
unmoved,  whilst  Clem  beside  it  was  rolling  up  his  eyes 
and  trying  to  induce  a  tear — an  effort  beyond  even  his  art. 

When  the  preacher  discovered  the  true  state  of  affairs, 
which  ho  did  when  ho  saw  Clem  pick  ut^  +he  cane  and  its 
burden,  carry  it  to  the  door,  give  it  a  j  /k,  bending  his 
head  at  the  same  time,  and  so  receivt  th?  hat  at  his  own 
peculiar  angle,  he  felt  as  if  all  goou  was  but  a  dream  and  a 
delusion. 

Clem  every  Sunday  i)rodnced  a  large  and  not  over- 
clean  handkerchief  tied  in  many  intricate  knotSc  These 
he  untied  painfully  and  laboriously  with  teeth  and  fin- 
gers, until  lie  reached  the  last,  which,  when  untied,  dis- 
closed a  copper  cent,  which  was  his  weekly  contribution. 
This  performance  he  made  an  absolute  torment  to  Mrs. 
Deans,  but  with  the  cent  he  made  her  life  a  burden.  He 
dropped  it,  and  scrambled  around  on  liis  hands  and  knees 
for  it.  He  polished  it  on  his  trousers  until  it  seemed  as  if 
he  might  wear  the  fabric  through.  Worst  of  all,  he  put  it 
on^theback  of  the  seat  before  him,  where  Mrs.  Wilson's 
plump  back  must  inevitably  knock  it  off.  Mrs.  Wilson, 
despite  her  many  trials  and  the  multitude  of  diseases  she 
believed  were  concealed  about  her  person,  was  very  stout, 
and  therefore  subject  to  all  the  fatigues  incident  to  bear- 
ing such  a  burden  of  flesh.  In  spite  of  this,  howev  .  Mrs. 
Wilson  was  animated  by  an  eager  desire  to  do  her  duty  as 
became  a  "  mother  in  Israel,"  and  by  her  deportment  con- 
vey the  impressive  lesson  of  example  to  the  less  holy  mem- 
bers of  the  flock.  With  this  end  in  view,  she,  strove  to 
^ttidn  an  upriglit  and  rigid  poeition  of  an  uncomfortably 


I'     * 
11 


.«    1 


4*'  I 

i  ] 

p  'II 


I50 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


piety;  but  the  flesh  is  weak.  Presumably  the  weakness 
increases  in  ratio  to  the  flesh,  for  before  the  first  prayer 
was  over  Mrs.  Wilson  was  beginning  to  settle.  When 
the  preacher  announced  his  text,  she  usually  took  a  fresh 
grip  of  her  failing  resolution,  and  assumed  a  ramrod-like 
pose,  but  it  was  of  short  duration.  She  gradually  collapsed, 
her  shoulders  drooped,  the  back  of  the  pew  dented  further 
and  further  into  the  broad  black  expanse  that  leaned 
against  it. 

Clem's  penny  crept  nearer  and  nearer  the  edge  as  the 
encroaching  back  advanced.  Presently  Mrs.  Wilson,  worn 
out  in  her  efforts  to  listen  to  the  sermon  and  fight 
against  her  own  lassitude  at  one  and  the  same  time,  gave 
way,  and,  with  a  sigh,  leaned  back  restfully.  The  penny 
flew  off,  and  Clem,  whilst  apparently  gazing  at  the 
preacher  so  attentively  as  to  be  oblivious  of  all  else, 
reached  forward  and  caught  it  adroitly,  to  place  it  again 
in  jeopardy,  and  then  again  to  lose  sight  of  its  peril. 
This  performance,  being  repeated  a  half-dozen  times  dur- 
ing one  service,  enraged  Mrs.  Deans  beyond  expression. 
One  unlucky  day,  she  prodded  Clem  in  the  back  with  a 
rigid  forefinger,  and  upon  his  turning  round,  which  ho 
did  with  an  exaggerated  start  that  vibrated  through  tluj 
whole  congregation,  she  made  a  sharp  gesture  of  with- 
drawal, and  gazing  at  the  offending  penny,  just  ihcn 
trembling  on  the  edge,  left  the  rest  to  Clem's  understai  1- 
ing — a  perilous  thing  to  do,  for  Clem  chose  to  interprc  * 
the  signal  in  quite  a  different  way  than  she  intended, 

Down  Mrs.  Wilson's  black  merino  back  there  strayed  a 
long  light  brown  hair.  To  Mrs.  Deans'  consternation,  Clem 
reached  gingerly  forward,  took  the  hair,  and,  with  the  sud- 
denness Mrs.  Deans'  gesture  had  indicated,  withdrew  his 
hand.  Now  the  hair  had  merely  strayed,  and  was  not  lost 
from  Mr§,  Wilsoji's  knot,  hepce  the  sharp  jerk  brought  a 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


151 


sakness 
prayer 

When 
a  fresh 
rod-like 
Ihipsed, 
further 

leaned 

i  as  the 
in,  worn 
id  fight 
ne,  gave 
le  penny 

at    the 
all  else, 

it  again 
its  peril, 
mes  dur- 
pression. 
!k  with  a 
vhich  ho 
DUgh  tho 

of  with- 
list  ihcn 
derstai  1" 

interpn  ^ 
intended, 

strayed  11 
ion,  Clem 
1  the  sud- 
hdrew  his 
as  not  lost 

brought  Oi 


smothered  exclamation  and  a  sudden  start  from  her — a 
start  which  sent  the  detestable  copper  spinning.  Clem 
caught  the  coin  dexterously  with  one  hand,  whilst  he 
turned  to  offer  Mrs.  Deans  the  hair  with  the  other.  That 
worthy  woman  looked  positively  apoplectic,  and,  giving 
Clem  just  one  look,  turned  her  attention  markedly  to  the 
preacher.  Clem  turned,  with  a  fine  expression  of  bewil- 
dered disappointment  upon  his  face,  replaced  the  hair  on 
Mrs.  AVilson's  shoulder  and  the  coin  on  the  ledge,  and  lost 
himself  in  pious  meditation. 

This  occurred  some  time  before  this  autumn  Sunday, 
but  Mrs.  Deans  had  suffered  in  silence  since  then.  She 
was  prone  to  leave  church  with  her  temper  thoroughly 
on  edge.  Clem  was  surpassing  himself  that  day :  he  wore 
a  long-tailed  coat  of  the  fashion  of  many  years  before, 
and,  when  he  arrived,  which  he  did  just  as  the  first 
psalm  was  announced,  he  deliberately  stood  up,  and,  pull- 
ing round  first  one  coat-tail  and  then  the  other,  emptied 
them  of  a  multitude  of  small  articles — tobacco,  pipes, 
balls  of  twine,  lead  sinkers,  little  twists  of  wire,  a  big 
jack-knife,  stray  nails,  and  a  varied  assortment  of  bits  of 
iron  and  buttons.  Having  put  these  all  on  the  seat  beside 
him,  he  deposited  himself  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  puts 
aside  worldly  things  to  listen  to  better.  Hardly  was  he 
seated  before  he  imagined  the  flies  were  troubling  him. 
He  made  several  spasmodic  slaps  at  his  bald  head,  and  then 
drawing  forth  his  handkerchief,  folded  it  carefully  in  four 
and  laid  it  on  the  top  of  his  head.  Thus  adorned,  he 
rose  to  sing,  knelt  to  pray,  and  finally  listened  with  rever- 
ential attention  to  the  sermon. 

"Few  are  thy  days,  and  full  of  woe, 
O  man,  of  woman  born  ; 
Thy  doom  is  written,  '  Dust  thou  ftrt 

A«4  Bbftlt  tg  du§t  return, ' " 


1  I 


t 


k 


I5» 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


So  they  sang;  and  the  wailing  air,  upborne  by  the  harsh, 
untrained  voices,  reverberated  from  the  bare  walls  of  the 
church,  its  jangling  cadence  pierced  by  one  pure  and 
bell-like  voice,  for  Bing  White,  with  the  heart  of  a  vul- 
ture, had  the  voice  of  a  lark. 

One  passing  outside  smiled — half  amusedly,  half  sadly — 
as  he  heard  the  singing,  and  went  on  his  way  with  the 
music  following  him  in  ever  fainter  notes,  forcing  itself 
upon  him. 


On  Sunday  Myron  Holder  had  her  only  relaxation. 
Her  grandmother,  preserving  the  prejudices  of  the  little 
Kentish  village  from  which  she  had  come,  detested  all 
other  religions  save  the  Episcopal.  Her  folks  had  all 
been  strong  for  Church  and  State,  and  she  scorned  the  idea 
of  going  to  the  Methodist  church,  or,  as  she  contemptu- 
ously said,  "to  chapel."  Her  vocabulary  knew  no  more 
derisive  epithet  than  "  a  Methody. "  This  in  itself  was 
enough  to  isolate  the  Holders  in  the  midst  of  a  community 
that  regarded  Episcopalians  as  being  "  next  door  to  out-and- 
out  Catholics,"  and  Catholics  as  surely  doomed.  As  Mrs. 
Holder  did  not  go  to  church  herself,  neither  did  she  allow 
Myron  to  go  after  the  work  for  the  day  was  done,  so 
she  was  free  to  lavish  her  heart  on  her  chikl.  It  was 
her  custom,  whilst  church  was  in  and  the  streets  empty, 
to  take  the  boy  and  go  out  into  the  fields  or  lanes  with 
him,  severing  herself  from  the  house  that  had  held  such 
agony  for  her  and  from  the  woman  whose  stinging  tongue 
kept  her  wound  raw.  Once  with  her  boy — alone  in  the 
air  and  sunshine — she  gave  herself  up  to  introspectve 
soul-searchings.  Upon  one  side  she  set  herself,  and  upon 
the  other  all  things  good;  in  the  great  gulf  between 
there  hovered  the  shade  of  the  man  to  whom  she  owed  her 
piisery.     Jn  the  abandonment  of  her  self-abasen^ent,  she  did 


THE  VtfTEMPERED  WIND 


tS3 


not  place  herself  even  upon  his  level,  whilst  as  for  little 
My — he  shone  amongst  the  holiest  of  those  things  to 
which  it  seemed  to  her  she  was  herself  in  such  direct 
opposition  and  contradiction.  The  great  marvel  of  her 
life  was  this  child,  who  owed  its  existence  to  her.  She 
looked  at  it  with  eyes  of  adoration — touched  it  almost 
humbly,  as  the  Madonna  we  are  told  of  may  have  tended 
the  Christ-child  on  her  breast.  The  child  seemed  to 
mbody  all  the  dead  delight  of  her  own  girlhood,  to  have 
irbed  all  the  peace,  all  the  calm.,  all  the  gayety  she  had 
lost.  Tliere  seemed  no  varying  moods  to  cross  its  baby 
mind ;  it  was  the  embodiment  of  trusting  love. 

Myron,  in  the  face  of  this  miracle,  this  perfect  blossom 
which  sunned  itself  in  her  eyes  only  and  expanded  beneath 
her  tenderness,  was  bewildered  and  amazed.  She  began 
to  ponder  over  the  matter,  and  presently  to  wonder  if  there 
was  any  phase  of  the  entire  situation  that  made  her  less 
blameless — to  ask  herself  in  what  way  she  could  possibly 
obliterate  shame  from  her  record  for  his  sake. 


■pK 


"Are  your  garments  spotless? 
Are  they  white  as  snow  ? 
Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?" 


The  words  came  to  her  as  a  personal  and  crushing  query 
as  the  congregation  energetically  sang  them.  Little  My 
clapped  his  hands  and  laughed  delightedly;  the  music 
pleased  him.  So  Myron  stood  outside  until  the  voices  died 
away,  and  the  murmur  of  prayer  succeeded;  then  taking 
My  up  in  her  arms,  that  they  might  make  greater  speed, 
she  went  rapidly  out  of  the  village.  She  turned  to  her 
left,  and,  going  a  short  distance  along  the  road,  lifted  My 
over  the  fence  into  Mr.  Warner's  grass  meadow.  Through 
the  centre  of  this  field  ran  a  deep  ditch,  to  carry  off  the 
surface  drainage  in  spring.     Its  course  was  marked  by  a 


% 


I 


154 


,TH£  UnTEMPERED  WIND 


thick  growth  of  low-growing  shrubs,  among  which  grew 
short  stubby  oaks,  whilst  here  and  there  great  graceful 
elms  sprang  up  in  lofty  columns,  crowned  with  drooping 
branches;  parasitic  vines,  suckiug  the  life-juice  of  the 
tree  they  adorned,  crept  up  these  elms;  their  delicate 
Icsves,  already  scarlet,  showed  vividly  against  the  gray 
bark  of  the  trees,  and  looked  like  thin  streams  of  blood 
trickling  down.  Particularly  was  this  the  case  where, 
upon  one  of  the  elms,  the  creeping-vine  had  reached  the 
point  where  a  branch  had  been  broken  off  by  the  wind. 
The  semblance  was  thus  complete:  there  was  the  wound 
— there  the  blood,  and  above,  the  sighing  leaves  de- 
plored the  pain.  At  the  foot  of  this  tree  was  a  huge 
and  brightly  green  mound,  which,  as  Myron  approached, 
seemed  almost  artificial,  so  close  were  the  leaves  set,  so 
impenetrably  were  the  tendrils  woven  together;  for  this 
mound  was  formed  of  two  oak  trees  over  which,  completely 
hiding  them,  grew  a  huge  wild  grape  vine,  forming  a  per- 
fect canopy  of  dense  green,  and,  more  honest  than  the 
vine  that  sapped  the  elm  tree,  the  grapevine^  by  its  luxu- 
riant growth  and  the  vigor  of  its  stem  and  branches, 
seemed  to  proclaim  its  settled  purpose  to  smother  the  trees 
that  supported  it  if  possible. 

To  this  Myron  bent  her  footseps.  Pressing  into  the 
shrubs  some  distance  below,  she  won  her  way  through 
them  until  she  came  to  the  foot  of  the  elm  tree,  and 
entered  the  green  tent  formed  by  the  grapevine.  Between 
the  trunks  of  the  two  scrubby  oaks  was  a  space  of  heavy 
green  grass,  which,  springing  up  before  the  vine  leaves 
had  shut  ofE  the  sun,  kept  green  and  fresh  in  their 
shadow  through  all  the  heats  of  summer.  Here  she  and 
her  child  sat  down ;  they  were  completely  shielded  from 
observation — the  grape  garlands  at  their  backs,  before 
them  the  masses  of  shrubs  on  the  other  side  of  the  ditch. 


THE   Ul^TEMPERED  tVIND 


'55 


Myron  took  a  biscuit  from  her  pocket  and  gave  it  to  tlie 
boy,  and  then,  clasping  her  hands  about  her  knees,  lost 
herself  in  dreams.  She  had  cast  aside  her  sun-bonnet,  and 
the  light,  with  difficulty  piercing  the  shade,  shone  upon 
her  in  pearly  lights  and  gleams — a  colder  radiance  than 
shone  elsewhere. 

The  soft  characterless  face  of  the  young  girl  had  been 
frozen  into  the  enforced  calm  of  passionless  despair.  Her 
face  gave  a  strange  impression,  as  of  features  that  would 
remain  unchanged  no  matter  how  long  time  endured  for 
their  possessor;  as  if  the  voice  of  pain  and  shame  had 
bade  her  life  stand  "till,  nor  evidence  its  aging  in  her 
countenance.  No  network  of  wrinkles,  no  deep  marks  of 
care,  could  have  been  half  so  sad  as  these  youthful  outlines 
veiled  by  such  grief.  Her  eyes  were  heavy;  her  mouth 
would  have  been  bitter,  but  that  the  patience  of  the 
face  belied  all  bitterness  save  that  of  self-contempt.  Under- 
neath this  mask  of  arrested  life,  vivifying  it  with  tragic 
meaning  and  rendering  it  inexpressibly  sad,  burned  an 
intense  suppressed  expectancy,  as  of  one  who  doth 

"Espy 
A  hope  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  dream.  " 

« 

This  lent  her  face  the  artistic  value  of  motive,  and 
transformed  what  might,  without  it,  have  been  but  a  sad- 
faced  woman,  such  as  the  world  holds  in  countless  thou- 
sands, into  a  creature  of  tragic  force. 

Myron  pondered  in  the  shadow,  whilst  her  child  played 
at  her  side.  It  was  very  still.  The  child's  soft  breathing 
as  he  plucked  at  the  soft  grass  was  the  only  sound  that 
broke  the  listening  silence;  opposite  her  was  a  little 
maple  tree;  a  single  leaf  near  the  top  was  whirling  round 
and  round,  caught  in  some  miniature  tempest  that  left 
unmoved  the  leaves  on  either  side.     In  the  midst  of  uni- 


-c 


^11 


*¥ 


Ik 


;l   I 


is6 


fI/£  VnTEMPERI^D  iVINV 


versal  calm,  this  lonely  leaf  was  tossed  and  troubled, 
singled  out  for  unrest,  as  Myron  Holder  had  been  set  apart 
for  pain.  But  Myron's  thoughts  were  not  upon  the  leaf, 
albeit  she  saw  it  fluttering.  She  was  struggling  against  a 
futile  wrath,  which  welled  up  in  her  heart  and  at  times 
nearly  mastered  reason — a  hot  rage  against  herself — Mm — 
the  village.  Her  cheeks  flushed — her  hands  involuntarily 
closed. 

Why  had  this  lot  been  meted  out  to  her?  In  what 
was  she  different  from  these  other  women  whose  fault  had 
been  no  less  than  hers?  Why  was  continual  bitterness 
her  portion  whilst  they  dwelt  at  ease?  Simply  because, 
though  tardily,  their  children  had  been  given  a  name. 
She  felt  a  bitter  wish  spring  up  within  her  breast  that 
all  those  jibing  at  her  were  such  as  she;  that  all  those 
cruel  women  might  feel  the  touch  of  shame ;  that  they 
might  be  brought  low,  and  taste  the  bitter  bread  that  was 
her  portion,  and  drink  the  cup  they  held  to  her  lips.  And 
then  she  sank  into  an  evil  dream.  In  it  she  beheld  herself 
sitting  in  the  judgment  seat  of  respectability  and  meting 
out  judgment  to  those  who  so  lately  had  been  her  judges; 
for,  in  her  dream,  he  had  returned  and  justified  her ;  she 
had  risen,  and  all  the  rest  had  fallen ;  and  as  they  toiled 
along  the  thorny  path  her  feet  had  known,  she  beheld 
herself  pass  by  on  the  other  side.  How  she  would  with- 
draw from  them  (her  eyes  grew  cold) !  How  she  would 
avert  her  head  (her  lips  were  scornful) !  How  she  would 
look  them  up  and  down  with  contemptuous  condemnation, 
and  turn  and  whisper  her  verdict  into  willing  ears.  That 
would  bring  the  blood  to  their  cheeks.  That  would — she 
paused,  arresting  her  thoughts  with  a  sudden  knowledge 
of  their  shame ;  the  cold  eyes  filled  with  tears,  the  scornful 
lips  drooped  and  trembled ;  she  realized  the  horrible  wick- 
edness of  her    own  thoughts — thoughts — no    hope,  she 


flt&  VNTEAfPEHED  WtNd 


til 


owned  to  herself,  and  crying  aloud,  "I  am  wicked, 
shameless!"  she  flung  herself  upon  her  face  in  the  grass 
and  wept  out  the  bitterness  of  her  soul.  The  child  crept 
to  her  side  and  strove  to  turn  her  face  toward  him ;  she 
kept  it  hidden,  but  stretched  forth  her  arm  and  clasped 
his  little  form. 

My,  frightened  at  the  silence  with  which  his  overtures 
were  met  and  at  his  mother's  unusual  attitude,  and  shaken 
by  her  sobs,  began  to  cry.  Myron  roused  herself,  and 
taking  him  in  her  arms,  held  him  to  her  breast,  rocking 
back  and  forth  in  the  abandonment  of  her  grief.  The 
motion  soothed  and  reassured  the  already  drowsy  child,  and 
in  a  few  moments  he  slept,  whilst  his  mother,  stilling  her 
sobs  that  she  might  not  disturb  his  slumber,  bent  above 
him  a  face  wrung  by  pain. 

She  mused  over  her  late  vision  of  retaliation.  With 
what  cruelty  had  she  hit  upon  the  mode  of  showing  her 
revenge!  Alas,  the  lesson  had  been  well  taught  her,  for 
she  had  known  the  averted  gaze,  the  scornful  lip,  the  con- 
temptuous regard.  She  had  simply  chosen  those  means 
from  which  she  herself  had  suffered  most  keenly.  There 
came  back  to  her  the  memory  of  an  early  morning,  when, 
standing  in  the  doorway,  she  had  looked  out  into  the 
dawn  and  had  peen 


-I 


£  iK«l 


*'*| 


"  The  horizontal  suu 
Heave  his  bright  shoulders  o'er  the  edge  of  the  world,  " 


and  had  vowed  herself  to  the  service  of  others,  and  to  the 
atonement  of  her  sin,  and  hoped  for  an  early  death. 

Here,  under  the  cold  rays  of  the  autumnal  sun,  and 
abased  before  the  memory  of  her  late  musings,  she  re- 
newed those  vows  and  scourged  her  soul  with  stripes  of 
self-reproach. 

When  My  woke,  they  went  forth  from  their  refuge, 


rsi 


TlfE  UNTEMPERED  WIUD 


across  tlio  fields,  up  tlic  street  to  the  village;  the  streets 
were  empty.  A  shiinibliug  figure  in  the  distuuee,  bespeak- 
ing Clem  Humphries  by  the  lengtii  of  the  coat-tails  and  the 
thinness  of  the  legs,  was  making  toward  tiie  lake.  Tt  was 
indeed  Clem,  going  to  indulge  in  a  little  surreptitious 
sport  as  an  antidote  to  the  sermon.  Clem  looked  upon 
his  churc;hgoing  as  one  of  his  many  professions,  like  the 
making  of  wire  snares  uinl  the  digging  of  graves. 
"  Only,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  rellectod  upon  the  mat- 
ter, "give  me  a  grave  to  dig  for  choice." 

Homer  Wilson  passed  the  church  that  day  just  as  they 
were  singing  that  lugubrious  paraphrase.  He  smiled  a 
little  to  himself,  and  went  on,  snying,  "Very  cheerful 
that — very;  but  they  haven't  anymore  idea  of  returning 
to  dust  than  I  have,  at  least  not  for  a  while. "  But  it  seemed 
he  could  "  t  get  beyond  the  echo  of  the  singing.  The 
voices  followed  him  far  through  the  rarefied  air;  tlicre 
came  to  him  little  snatches  of  the  gloomy  words,  persist- 
ently forcing  themselves  upon  him.  He  quickened  his 
pace,  and  was  soon  beyond  the  farthest-reaching  note,  and 
yet  it  seemed  to  vibrate  in  his  ears.  Once  clear  of  the 
village,  he  struck  across  country. 

The  sorrel  showed  red,  the  ragweed  white,  between  the 
short  stalks  of  the  yoilow  stubble;  here  and  there  in  the 
lanes  and  by  the  gateways  were  spots  of  bright  green 
verdure,  looking  unhealthily  brilliant  among  these  dull 
browns  and  yellows. 

This  was  where  the  over-ripe  grain,  falling  to  earth,  had 
sprung  up  to  wither  at  the  touch  of  the  first  frost. 
Homer  frowned  a  little  at  this.  It  bespoke  careless  man- 
agement, and  the  instinct  of  the  farmer  was  strong  in  him ; 
but  his  brow  speedily  cleared,  for  his  thoughts  were  of  far 
other  things.  His  walk  was  very  silent;  the  eas  li  had 
indeed  "grown  mute  of  song,"  and  all  these  resting  field ^ 


TIH'.    iJf^TEMrEREn  IV/JV/} 


m 


were  duiii]);  no  crisping  c'ri(;kct,  no  whirring  insecst,  no 
singing  birti,  nothing  <liriUirbe<l  tho  serenity  of  tliu  hour. 
It  seomc'J  a  liiutus  in  tlio  procosseH  of  nature — u  suHponsion 
of  all  activity,  a  breatiiless  i)aiise  of  ecstasy  or  pain,  like 
the  instant  before  a  first  kiss  (;r  the  moment  before  a 
linal  fiirewell. 

Unde»-  those  conditions  tliought  was  easy,  and  Homer 
went  on  and  on,  his  mind  dwelling  upon  the  one  all- 
abaorbing  theme. 

"Myron — Myron,"  ho  said  once,  aloud,  but  his  voice 
seemed  at  fret  with  the  quietude,  and  he  walked  on 
swiftly,  to  escape  its  cheerless  echo.  Tresently  he  found 
himself  entering  the  woodlaiul,  and  knew  he  was  a  full  ten 
miles  from  Jamestown.  A  straight  course  through  the 
woodland  brought  him  to  the  margin  of  the  lake,  which 
bayed  in  here  in  a  sharp  curve. 

Close  to  the  margin  lay  great  prostrate  logs,  whitened 
by  wind  and  weather  till  they  looked  like  huge  }»leached 
bones.  Beyond  these  were  stones  and  a  narrow  strip  of 
gravelly  bea  h,  broken  here  and  there  by  boulders,  against 
which  the  water  lapped  softly  in  a  thousand  ripples,  wear- 
ing away  the  rock  into  tiny  cells,  and  honey-combing  them 
with  gentle  but  resistless  touches.  Stretching  out  into  the 
water,  a  succession  of  large  stones  showed  their  stubborn 
heads,  leading  by  irregular  stejis  out  to  where  the  last  one, 
large  enough  to  be  a  tiny  rocky  islet,  showed  two  feet 
high  above  the  encircling  water. 

Homer  made  his  way  across  these  perilous  stepping- 
stones,  until  he  reached  the  largest;  sitting  down,  he  sank 
into  a  reverie  so  profound  that  he  scarcely  seemed  to 
breathe.  His  face  grew  pale  as  he  sat  there  minute  after 
minute,  the  water  lap-lapping  among  the  rocks,  the  trees 
silent  behind  him,  tho  sky  mute  above.  Once  he  mur- 
mured a  few  words,  paraphrased  with  no  thought  of  irrev- 


m 


% 


f6d 


TUB   UI^TEUfPEfiED  Wtl^0 


erenoo:  "As  u  Ijimb  before  its  sheuriT  is  dunib,  so  shef 
opened  not  lier  mouth."  Jlis  voice  fsilteretl  in  what  might 
have  been  a  sob,  but  was  resolutely  forced  back. 

The  sun  began  to  fall  behind  the  trees  before  Homer 
rose.  As  lie  did  so,  ho  cast  a  look  at  the  rock  upon  which 
he  had  been  resting ;  there,  caught  in  a  crevice,  lay  an  old- 
fashioned  bullet.  Ho  picked  it  up  and  looked  at  it  lying  in* 
his  palm.  One  could  scarcely  imagine  it  speeding  through 
the  air  upon  a  hurtful  mission.  It  had  wandered  on  to 
find  a  victim,  until,  its  impetus  spent,  it  had  fallen  inglo- 
riously  to  lie  upon  this  rock,  mocked  by  the  sunlight  which 
it  had  been  meant  to  darken  forever  for  some  living 
creature.  Homer  slipped  it  into  his  pocket  and  began  to 
make  his  way  shoreward,  leaping  lightly  from  stone  to  stone. 
As  he  sprang  to  land  again,  he  said  between  his  teeth,  "  I'd 
like  to  hear  any  she-cat  in  the  crowd  open  her  lips  to  my 
wife !"    It  will  be  seen  his  reverie  had  developed  its  subject. 

Homer  held  his  way  home  happily,  his  eyes  alight,  his 
face  aglow  with  his  old  generous  spirit.  He  was  once  more 
the  Homer  of  the  past.  Realizing  this,  he  recognized  the 
debt  he  owed  Myron  Holder,  and  paid  homage  to  that 
strong  soul  whoso  mute  endurance  of  ignominy  and 
betrayal  had  shamed  his  own  sleeping  soul  into  life.  It  is 
plain  to  us  that  Myron  Holder's  shame  was  Homer  Wil- 
son's salvation.  It  is  an  ugly  thought,  but  inevitable,  that 
such  instances  may  not  be  rare.  But  may  not  that  virtue 
we  hold  "too  high  and  good  for  human  nature's  daily 
food" — may  not  even  that  be  bought  too  dear?  What  an 
ugly  complexion  it  would  put  upon  our  intolerant  atti- 
tude to  those  fallen  ones,  if  we  dreamed  for  one  moment 
that  our  immaculate  virtue  was  preserved  by  their  vice ! 
It  would  be  hard  to  ask  us  to  renounce  heaven,  but  if 
heaven  for  one  meant  hell  for  another,  it  were  at  least  well 
for  us  not  to  blow  the  fire. 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


i6i 


Kut  Homer  Wilson  was  not  thinking  of  any  generaliza- 
tions; ho  was  simply  concerned  with  the  deht  he  owed 
Myron  Holder  and  how  to  pay  it;  for,  and  be  it  told  with 
no  thought  of  disparaging  Homer  Wilson,  ho  felt  ho 
would  bestow  an  inestimable  benetit  upon  Myron  Holder 
by  making  her  his  wife.  He  believed  he  would,  at  one 
blow,  free  her  from  tho  shackles  of  shame.  He  never 
thought  of  the  woman-soul  that  strove  to  justify  itself  by 
rigid  adherence  to  those  vows  that  had  seemed  so  sacred, 
uttered,  as  they  were,  by  lips  that  were  almost  divino  to 
the  listening  heart  they  had  betrayed. 

It  must  be  rememl)ered  that  Homer  was  nothing  but  a 
plain  countryman.  It  was  therefore  natural  that  he 
should  look  ujion  himself  somewhat  in  the  light  of  ij,  deliv- 
erer when  he  considered  himself  in  relation  to  Myron;  and 
yet,  inarticulate  but  existent,  there  was  a  hesitancy  in 
his  heart,  not  born  of  self-conceit  or  paltry  self-seeking, 
but  rooted  in  the  knowledge  of  his  own  weakness  in  time 
of  trial.  But  he  put  aside  all  this;  and  as  he  pushed  on 
towards  Jamestown  mused  happily  upon  tho  happiness 
that  was  his,  for  he  loved  Myron  Holder.     Poor  Homer! 

"  Whoso  encamps 
To  take  a  fancied  city  of  delight, 
Oh,  what  a  wretch  is  he ! " 


i 


i\ 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  For  thy  life  shall  fall  as  a  leaf,  and  be  shed  as  the  rain  ; 

And  the  veil  of  thine  head  shall  he  grief,  and  the  crown  shall  be  pain.^ " 

It  was  late  autumn.  The  grapes  were  all  cut,  although 
their  aroma  still  filled  the  air,  for  stray  bunches,  super- 
jripened  by  the  frost,  hung  visible  pow  upon  the  leafless 


i6a 


THE    UNTEMPRRED   WIND 


stems  where  they  had  been  concealed  by  the  foliage  from  the 
cutters.  The  late  apples  were  all  picked,  and  in  the 
orchards  were  great  piles  of  new  barrels  ready  to  be  filled. 

Bright  green  fields  checkered  the  face  of  the  sombre 
countryside  with  vivid  squares,  showing  the  advance  of 
the  fall-sown  wheat.  The  chestnut-burs  had  opened  in 
the  woods,  and  the  hickory-nuts  were  strewn  thick  beneath 
the  trees.  All  the  boys  in  Jamestown  had  brdwn-stained 
fingers,  from  the  shelling  of  walnuts  and  butternuts.  The 
Indian  corn  was  being  cut  and  bound  into  tent-shaped 
shocks,  so  that  the  fields  had  the  appearance  of  a  plain, 
set  thick  with  tiny  wigwams.  Now  and  then,  along  the 
roads,  a  great  wagon  passed,  piled  high  with  apples,  wind- 
falls and  culls  going  to  the  cider  mills.  Their  drivers  went 
out  to  Ezra  Harmon's  and  loitered  about  in  his  big  barn 
where  the  cider  press  stood,  and  watched  their  apples 
poured  into  the  wide  hopper,  heard  them  grinding  and 
groaning  between  the  wheels,  and  saw  their  juices  drain 
out  through  the  clean  rye  straw  into  the  pails  beneath. 

People  began  to  talk  about  the  threshing  of  the  grain, 
to  bank  up  their  cellars,  and  to  speak  of  the  portents  of  a 
severe  winter.  The  leaves  were  all  down.  They  lay  a 
foot  deep  along  the  roads,  where  the  maples  grew  in  regu- 
lar avenues,  and  rustled,  wind-blown,  between  the  tree 
trunks  in  the  woodland.  The  squirrels  skimmed  about 
in  their  eiforts  to  secure  their  winter  hoard.  In  the 
woods,  great  heaps  of  hickory-nui;  hulls  and  emptied 
chestnut-burs,  showed  where,  with  their  sharp  teeth  and 
persistent  paws,  they  had  removed  the  superfluous  cover- 
ing before  storing  away  the  nuts. 

The  horses  were  growing  shaggy  and  the  dogs*  fur 
lengthening.     In  short,  winter  was  drawing  near. 

In  Homer  Wilson's  orchard  all  was  noise,  confusion,  and 
Tfork,    Homer  Jiimself  was  packing  the  apples— putting 


m 


msm 


mmm 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


163 


in  a  layer  of  newspapers,  then  carefully  "laying"  by  hand 
several  rows  of  apples,  before  emptying  in  the  pailfuls  of 
picked  fruit  that  were  brought  to  him,  for  the  bottom  of 
a  barrel  in  the  orchard  is  the  top  of  the  barrel  when  it  is 
opened  by  the  dealers.  Next  in  order  to  Homer  was  Sam 
AVarner,  who  was  heading  the  barrels,  the  tap  tapping 
of  his  hammer  ringing  clear  in  the  frosty  air.  Homer 
sliouting  out  directions  every  now  and  then  in  a  sepul- 
chral voice  from  the  depths  of  the  barrel.  There  was  a 
great  gathering  in  the  orchard  of  the  neighbors,  for  a  fruit 
dealer  had  bought  up  all  the  apples  in  Jamestown  to  send 
to  England,  aiul  they  were  to  bo  shipped  by  the  car-load 
upon  a  certain  date.  So,  following  the  suggestion  of  the 
buyer  (to  whom  time  meant  money),  they  had  agreed  to 
help  each  other  with  the  fruit.  This  was  not  a  usual  cus- 
tom in  Jamestown ;  there  was  too  much  jealousy  to  admit 
of  such  interchange  of  labor. 

It  was  Homer  Wilson's  benefit  this  day,  and  both  out- 
side in  the  orchard  and  within  doors  all  was  happy,  hur- 
rying confusion.  There  was  nothing  renuukable  alx)ut 
the  day  or  the  scene;  but  exactly  a  year  after  this,  Homer 
Wilson  was  to  act  in  a  somewhat  different  scene,  and  after 
he  played  his  part  in  that  his  neighbors  recalled  this  day 
"just  a  year  ago."  They  said,  "  Who  would  have  tiionght 
it?" 

Bing  White  was  in  the  Wilson  orchard,  and  Si  AVarner, 
pnd  other  of  their  cronies.  No  one  ever  expected  Bing 
to  work ;  his  idleness  was  looked  upon  with  tolerant 
inuifff'rencc,  a  perilous  indication  in  this  neighborhood » 
?vherc  to  bo  a  hard  worker  and  a  good  church-goer  meant 
perfection,  and  to  fail  in  cither  grace  was  to  be  utterly 
Jost.  People  began  to  look  at  Bing  White  attentively  now 
and  then,  and  shake  their  heads  with  ominous  import, 
for  the  S9n  and  heir  of  the  Whites  \vas  daily  becoming 


\% 


■M 
'*, 


i\ 


W^r 


It    U 


i64 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


\ 


more  elfish-looking,  more  ovil-cyed,  more  mocking  of 
speech,  more  stubborn  of  purpose.  After  racing  here  and 
there  over  the  orchard,  he  climbed  (not  without  scratched 
hands  and  torn  clothes)  into  the  heart  of  a  juniper  tree 
that  grew  in  the  corner,  and,  hidden  there,  began  to  make 
what  was  known  among  school  children  in  Jamestown  as  a 
*'  wolf-bite"  upon  his  arm.  This  he  did  simply  by  baring 
the  arm,  putting  his  lips  to  the  flesh,  and  sucking  at  it 
until  the  blood  showed  in  red  pin-points  at  every  pore; 
this  was  a  wolf-bite.  There  was  a  thread  of  savagery  run- 
ning through  these  Jamestown  children — hardly  one  of 
them  but  had  a  mark  of  this  kind  upon  his  arm.  But 
Bing  White's  meagre  arms  looked  hideously  repulsive — 
like  raw  flesh  almost — so  completely  was  the  skin  disfig- 
ured by  liis  vampire-like  amusement.  The  fading  marks 
were  of  an  ugly  unhealthy  color,  like  a  livid  bruise,  the  fresh 
ones  fierily  encarnadined  and  inflamed ;  for  Bing  pursued 
this  pastime  to  a  perilous  pitch. 

Another  custom  indulged  in  every  now  and  then  by  the 
boys  and  girls  in  Jamestown  was  the  making  of  "  fox-bites," 
which  meant  simply  the  rubbing  with  a  moistened  finger 
of  a  spot  upon  the  back  of  the  hand  until  the  skin  was 
worn  away  and  a  spot  of  red  flesh  left ;  this  was  a  fox- 
bite — no  cut,  burn,  or  bruise  took  so  long  to  heal,  and  in 
the  little  schoolhouse  there  were  always  some  of  those 
hungry -looking  sores,  attesting  the  perseverance  and  forti- 
tude of  the  sufferers.  Rather  grewsome  pastimes  these 
seem — sprung  perhaps  from  some  Indian  custom,  wit- 
nessed by  some  early  settler,  described  by  him  to  his 
l)rcathless  circle  of  little  ones,  by  them  to  be  practised  in 
their  play  and  perpetuJited  in  the  mysterious  manner  that 
makes  a  meaninjgjess  mu^j^mery  survive  as  a  sacred  rite. 

Myron  HoJ4p?''s  grandrapther  had  been  failing  during 
the  entif^  summer.     She  sanjc  rapidly  as  the  autumA 


-«gJ!B^.iii 


I 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


165 


advanced,  her  strength  ebbing  as  the  days  shortened. 
Myron  went  no  more  to  Mrs.  Deans',  but  stayed  at  homo 
to  wait  upon  her  grandmother.  Tlie  old  woman  was  a 
querulous  invalid,  Avitli  no  specific  disease,  only  a  gradual 
decline  of  her  vitality.  Myron  waited  upon  her  untir- 
ingly, giving  her  every  possible  comfort  she  could  devise 
out  of  their  scanty  means  and  her  scantier  knowledge. 
IMtter  as  her  grandmother's  tongue  had  been,  harsh  as 
had  been  her  rule,  Myron  yet  shrunk  with  a  nick  feeling 
of  defenselessness  from  the  hour  when  that  tongue  would 
be  forever  silenced,  from  the  moment  when,  that  rule 
ceasing,  she  would  be  left  rudderless. 

In  these  days  of  autumn  quietude,  little  My  grew 
dearer  aiul  dearer  to  his  mother;  she  caught  him  to  her  in 
the  pauses  of  her  work,  to  kiss  him  for  a  moment. 


« 


"  O  soft  knees  clinging, 
O  tender  tread ings  of  soft  feet, 
Cheeks  warm  witli  little  kissings — 
O  child,  child,  what  have  we  made  each  other?" 

This  was  the  translation  of  her  heart's  mute  cry  above 
her  boy.  Myron  Holder,  denied  the  religion  of  those 
about  her,  given  no  other  in  its  place,  founded  for  herself 
a  now  sect,  and  created  for  herself  a  god,  and  the  god  was 
this  yellow-haired  child,  and  the  worship  she  accorded 
him  was  expressed  in  every  tender  tendance  of  her  loving 
hand.  He  chattered  away  to  her  ceaselessly  when  he  was 
awake,  and  the  echo  of  his  uncertain  tones  mingling  with 
her  grandmother's  bitter  words  robbed  them  of  their  sting. 

Mrs.  Holder  sank  daily.  Iler  tongue  was  silent  now,  save 
for  murmurs  of  discontent  or  chiding,  for  her  strength 
did  not  permit  of  much  speech  ;  but  her  eyes  shone  bale- 
fully  as  they  followed  Myron's  figure  about  the  room;  and 
Bometiraes,  when  Myron  bent  over  her,  their  depths  were 


■■■  Wa 


<: 


1 66 


r//E    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


ii 


lighted  by  malignant  mirth,  fiw  her  thoughts  were  turned 
to  that  little  plot  in  the  gravcyurd  where  two  tiny  pine 
stakes  stood  now,  marking  a  new  boundary. 

The  day  the  first  snow  fell,  Mr«.  Holder's  n\U\d,  hitherto 
fixed  solely  upon  her  sorrows  and  Myron '«  ahan\e,  began  to 
wander.  She  too,  like  her  dead  son,  began  to  Hpoak  of  Eng- 
land, but  not  so  sweetly  as  he.  Old  bits  of  village  scandal, 
flashes  of  old  spites  against  this  one  or  that,  the  expression 
of  old  dislikes,  broke  from  her  lips  with  painful  force, 
together  with  reflections  upon  household  affairs  and  daily 
needs,  which  told  that  she  was  in  spirit  back  amid  the  old 
manners  and  the  old  people. 

One  day  Myron  watched  her  fall  asleep,  and  then  crept 
out  to  the  kitchen  to  steal  a  look  at  the  boy,  who  was  also 
sleeping.  She  returned  in  an  instant,  but  in  that  time  a 
change  had  come  to  her  grandmother's  bewildered  brain. 
She  was  awake  again,  and  her  eyes  met  Myron's  with  cruel 
scorn,  as  she  paused  involuntarily  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  bedroom ;  it  was  an  expression  that  spoke  not  only  of 
dislike,  but  loathing,  fury,  hatred.  Myron  would  have 
approached  to  replace  the  coverlets  that  were  falling  from 
the  couch,  but  her  grandmother  grew  furious  if  she 
advanced  a  step.  „ 

"Out  of  my  sight,  Myron  Kind!"  she  cried.  "Out  wi' 
ye!  AVhat?  Ye'll  follow  my  son  within  his  own  doors, 
to  win  him?     Out,  you!   Go — on — out "  , 

Myron  retreated,  seeing  her  grandmother  was  confusing 
her  with  the  memory  of  her  mother.  Thrice  she  tried  to 
enter,  and  thrice  withdrew  before  the  rage  that  seemed  to 
shake  the  sick  woman's  frail  form  so  cruelly.  Then,  feel- 
ing she  must  have  aid,  Myron  hurried  to  the  street,  and 
going  to  the  nearest  house,  which  happened  to  be  Mrs. 
Warner's,  knocked  at  the  door. 

*'Will  joii  come  ovfr?"   shi?  Lal<!,  when   ^J^ra.   Wariiej 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


167 


answered  her  knock.  "  Grandmother's  out  of  her  head ;  she 
thinks  I'm  my  mother,  and  won't  let  me  go  near  her." 

"Poor  ohl  woman!"  said  Mrs.  Warner,  catching  at  a 
clean  white  apron.  "  Poor  old  woman!  You've  made  her 
life  a  burding  to  her  between  you,  I'll  be  bound." 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  in  the  cottage  again,  and 
Mrs.  Warner  installed  herself  in  the  sickroom,  somewhat 
disconcerted  because  Mrs.  Holder  persisted  in  calling  her 
"Bet,"  but  delighted  that  circumstances  had  brought  her 
to  the  front  at  such  a  time,  for  Mrs.  Warner  was  one  of 
the  matrons  of  the  village  who,  not  yet  attained  to  the 
elect,  like  Mrs.  Deans,  Mrs.  White  and  Mrs.  Wilson,  was 
yet  far  in  advance  of  the  young  wives  in  experience,  and 
thought  herself  quite  capable  of  sustaining  any  responsi- 
bility. 

To  be  present  and  assisting  at  the  coming  of  a  life 
or  the  passing  of  a  soul  was  the  highest  excitement  and 
most  precious  pleasure  these  women  knew ;  but  this  was 
a  height  to  be  attained  only  after  many  years  of  wife- 
hood. A' d  wh»t  novitiate  of  suffering  experience — years, 
knowledge — miglit  fitly  propart; ///f  these  mysteries!  The 
taking  up  and  laying  dow/i  of  the  burden,  the  brginning 
and  the  ending  of  i\w.  spinniu  /— for,  from  onr  first 
moments,  our  liaf/^l*  »re  bound  to  the  loom;  we  must 
weavu  our  own  webs,  but  Vn,iii  d(4//s^  out  the  thread  and 
Circumstance  dyes  the  fabric,  ikA  as  ^f  will,  but  as  Des- 
tiny /h'signs,  and  Death  spares  no  pattern,  however  lovely, 
but  stops  the  shuttle  when  owt  reel  of  thread  is  spun. 

By  what  holy  purification,  by  what  fastings,  by  what 
soul-searc})ings  may  we  prepare  to  enter  Nature's  holy  of 
holies?  Surely,  ere  entering  the  meanest  hut  of  clay  and 
wattles  wherein  life  springs  or  withers,  we  should  put  the 
shoes  from  off  our  feet, 

Uut  of  aU  this  Wn.  WiU'ypr  recked  }iothin|^.     It  waji  upji 


25 

1 


"11 


■^ili'inirtlff 


i68 


THE    r   VTEMPERED   WIND 


the  spirit  she  was  interedted  in,  but  the  body  it  was  casting 
olf ;  the  gasping  lips,  and  not  the  vital  breath  that  already 
almost  eluded  them. 

Mrs.  Holder  sank  rapidly.  The  women  began  to  gather 
in;  Mrs.  Warner  maintained  her  plane  as  chiefest  in  the 
synagogue,  and  put  aside,  with  judicial  firmness,  all  hands 
but  her  own.  Most  of  the  women  congregated  in  the 
kitchen,  where  they  eyed  the  scanty  furniture  and  whispered 
of  Myron's  hard-hear tedness,  for  she  did  not  weep.  She 
was  feeling  bitterly  her  impending  loneliness  and  isola- 
tion, for  deep  down  in  her  heart  there  yet  lived  that  mar- 
vellous tenderness  for  kith  and  kin  that  takes  so  much  to 
kill.  Of  a  verity,  "blood  is  thicker  than  water."  The 
woman  dying  so  fast  in  that  inner  room  was  her  grand- 
motherj  the  woman  who  had  borne  for  her  father  what  she 
had  borne  for  My.  She  clasped  My  in  her  arms  and  hid 
her  face  in  his  curls.  Mrs.  Holder's  voice  came  fitfully 
through  the  half-closed  door  to  the  women"  outside.  Mrs. 
Warner  came  to  the  door  just  as  Mrs.  Deans  entered  the 
kitchen,  hurrying  in  from  the  outer  air,  and  bringing  a 
new  excitement  with  her  to  intensify  the  suspense.  Mrs. 
Warner  beckoned  and  whispered : 

"She's  speaking  of  hearing  music  and  singing,  now; 
they  mostly  don't  last  long  after  that." 

"  They,"  not "  we" !  Oh,  strange  race  of  dying  people,  that 
are  set  apart  from  all  men  by  death's  approach,  that  we 
never  identify  with  ourselves!  Oh,  weird  world  to  which 
ihey  go,  which  doubtless  we  shall  never  enter!  Oh,  dreary 
passage  they  must  tread,  upon  whose  threshold  we  shall 
never  stand!  Oh,  awful  pang  of  severance  they  must 
enduf  9,  which  we  will  never  have  to  bear — and  yet 

"Fear  not  then,  Spirit,  Death's  disrobing  hand; 
'Tis  but  the  voyage  of  a  clarksomo  hour ;  ) 

The  traasieut  gulf— dream  of  a  atartling  sleep  !** 


THE   UN  TEMPER  ED   tV/ND 


l6() 


Mrs.  Deans  and  Mrs.  Warner  entered  the  room.  Mrs. 
I)eans'  experienced  eye  told  her  liow  nearly  time  was  ended 
for  the  dying  woman.     She  turned  to  the  kitchen. 

"  You  better  come  in,  Myron,"  she  said. 

Myron,  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  entered,  fearful  yet 
of  her  grandmother  denying  her;  but  the  old  woman's 
eyes  held  no  knowledge  of  her  presence  now.  They  wan- 
dered from  one  to  the  other  of  the  throng  of  women  im- 
partially, and  then  as  they  fastened  upon  the  child  and 
lightened,  as  eyes  might  do  which  behold  long- lost  ones 
once  dear,  she  held  out  wavering  arms  to  the  child. 

"Jed,  my  own  little  lad,"  she  said. 

>ryron  went  swiftly  forward  and  laid  My  by  her  grand- 
mother's side.  Ho  nestled  to  her  lovingly,  and  she  mut- 
tered tender  words  to  him,  calling  him  "Jed"  and  caressing 
him  with  fluttering  fingers.  He  clasped  his  warm  arms 
about  heis,  in  which  the  blood  was  already  cliilling,  and 
smilingly  fell  asleep,  and  a  little  later  sleep  came  to  her 
also. 

It  was  the  night  after  her  grandmother's  death,  and 
Myron  Holder,  with  a  sinking  heart,  had  watched  the 
form  of  the  last  visitor  pass  out  of  the  gate.  The  early 
dusk  of  winter  enveloped  the  house  and  promised  a  long, 
dreary  night — anight  of  terror  she  was  to  endure  alone,  for 
the  Jamestown  women  had  gone  each  to  her  own  house 
and  left  her  with  her  dead  and  her  child.  Her  imagina- 
tion, stored  with  transmitted  superstitions,  peopled  each 
familiar  corner  with  horrors.  She  saw  in  every  flickering 
light  a  death  fire,  in  every  shadow  a  shroud ;  each  breath 
of  wind  spoke  of  ghostly  visitants,  each  sound  seemed  to 
herald  <t  light.  She  lit  the  lamp  in  the  kitchen,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  u/idress  My  and  put  him  in  his  cradle  for  the 
night,  pausing  to  listen  between  each  movement. 

She  had  been  anticipating  and  fearing  this  ordeal  for 


i  ■ 


# 


til 


I  ! 
I   I 


I  ! 


tJO 


THE   VNTEMPEIHED  WIN/) 


days;  now  that  it  had  come  upon  her,  she  sickened  at 
heart. 

The  definite  darkness  of  night  set  in,  and  the  child 
slept.  She  began  to  hear  soft  stirrings  succeeded  by  shud- 
dering silences.  Beset  by  a  thousand  fears,  she  pursued 
the  worst  possible  plan :  she  constrained  herself  to  abso- 
lute inaction,  and  sat — her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap — an 
image  of  fear.  The  silence  about  her  gradually  gave  way 
to  a  babel  of  weird  voices,  through  which  there  suddenly 
sounded  the  muffled  pat-patting  of  ligh;:  footsteps.  As 
she  became  conscious  of  this  definite  sound,  all  the  imag- 
inary murmurs  died,  and  she  found  herself  in  deep 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  muffled  repetition  of  the  soft 
sound  that  chilled  her  heart.  This  noise,  which  she 
recognized  as  actually  existent,  stood  out  against  the  back- 
ground of  tlioHO  imaginary  fears  with  friglitful  distinct- 
\\\sm.  All  the  time  of  fear  which  had  ])as8ed  seemed  now 
to  have  been  but  an  interval  of  llHtoiiIng  for  vvliiit  bad  come. 

At  this  moment,  the  flame  of  tiie  little  lamp  which  had 
been  for  some  time  b'lniing  palely  suddenly  flared  up — 
onco — twice;  grew  for  an  instant  bluish,  then  went  out, 
leaving  her,  in  the  acnu)  of  her  terror,  In  durknoss.  N)ie 
closed  her  eyes  and  liHteluul  to  the  soft  sounds — coming 
now  at  intervalM  (nily,  but  linked  eaoh  to  each  by  fear  of 
the  lust  and  antici])ation  of  the  next,  forming  a  chain 
that  bound  Iht  in  the  Place  of  Fear.  But  at.  last  silence! 
fell  again,  a  silence  most  horrible.  She  felt  impelled  l.o 
o])en  her  <!yeM,  and  did  ho,  gazing  with  wide  lids  straight 
into  the  gloom;  there  was  nothing  Miere,  For  a  moment 
her  heart  was  reassured:  then  came  the  thought  of  that 
open  door  l;i?hind  her;  slowly  she  turned  her  head. 
Does  any  one  live  who  has  not,  at  one  time  or  other,  recog- 
nized that  it  may  require,  under  certain  circumstances, 
the  supremest  effort  of  will  to  look  l>ehind  one? 


TITE  UNTEAfPEKED  W/ND 


tit 


That  effort  Myron  IloUler  made,  but  sustained  tlio  gaze 
but  a  moment;  for,  gleaming  from  the  death  chamber,  nay, 
from  the  very  couch  of  death,  shone  two  balls  of  livid 
liglit.  With  a  moan  of  extreme  terror,  Myron  slid  from 
her  chair  and,  catching  at  the  boy's  cradle,  fell  helpless 
to  the  floor. 

Homer  Wilson  did  not  stand  long  knocking  at  the  cot- 
tage door:  his  heart  misgave  him  when  he  saw  there  was 
no  light.  Homer  had  returned  from  town  late  that  night; 
his  mother  had  told  him  of  Mrs.  Holder's  death.  She  said 
no  word  of  Myron,  and  Homer  forebore  to  question.  As  he 
passed  his  father's  md  mother's  room  that  night,  he 
heard  his  mother  close  the  shutters  and  say: 

"It's  a  mighty  spooky  night.  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  in 
Myron  Holder's  shoes,  a-settin'  death-watch  all  alone  over 
a  woman  I  had  worried  into  her  grave." 

Homer's  heart  stood  still.  Could  it  be  possible  those 
women  had  left  Myron  alone?  Surely  not  I  When  it 
was  customary  for  five  or  six  to  go  and  stay  over  night  in 
the  house  where  <leath  was?  Surely  not!  And  yet — 
"The  hags!"  said  Homer  to  himself,  and  went  down 
stairs. 

|fe  was  soon  on  the  road,  with  a  lantern.  He  recalled 
tlio  iUmiU  of  liis  sister,  and  remembered  how  the  neighbor 
women  had  sat  whispering  together  in  the  n-iHiantfy 
lighterl  kitchen,  brewing  tea  for  themsc^lves,  and  now  and 
then  stealing  on  lip-t(;o  to  look  in  upon  the  silent  one. 

Arriving  ui:  the  gate,  the  darkness  of  the  cottage  gave 
color  to  all  his  vague  f(turs  of  ill  to  Myron.  Ah  lie  rjrogsed 
the  little  garden,  slinking  rats,  drawn  by  thejr  ^IiomMhIi 
instincts  to  the  house  of  ilmih,  fled  before  the  li^lik,  but 
pausing  as  he  frmmiMl^  followinl  to  the  threshold,  their  evil 
broath  white  in  the  frosty  nir,  their  pljosplioresoerifc  eyes 
gleaming  in  the  dark. 


fji 


THE    UMTEMPERED  WIND 


I 


When  he  saw  Myron,  lying  prostrate  and  silent,  his  lirst 
sensation  was  one  of  relief,  lie  hiid  feared  that  hla- had 
fled  into  the  desolate  night;  he  realized  that  she  had  been 
frightened  and  had  fainted.  Raising  her  in  his  arms,  he 
called  her  name  softly.  Her  senses  were  already  reassert- 
ing themselves.  She  soon  stirred,  looking  up  at  him  with 
eyes  of  blank  terror,  which  faded  slowly  into  wonderment 
as  she  recognized  him.  She  held  her  hands  up  to  him, 
and  pressed  closer  to  the  shelter  of  his  breast.  He  cauglit 
both  her  hands  in  one  of  })is,  and  groped  for  a  chair 
with  the  other.  In  turning,  liis  eyes  caught  a  vision  of 
the  open  door  of  the  death  chamber.  He  saw  dimly  the 
couch,  with  its  rigid  burden,  and  saw  those  dreadful  glar- 
ing eyes.  For  a  moment,  he  caught  his  breath.  IMyron, 
seeing  the  direction  of  his  gaze,  clung  shudderingly  to 
him,  and  hid  jr  face  on  his  arm.  An  instant  more,  and 
Homer  perceived  the  outline  behind  those  glear  ing  spots. 

"  It's  a  brute  of  a  cat,"  he  said;  and  Myron,  understand- 
ing all  at  once  the  origin  of  the  sound,  broke  down  in  sobs 
of  relief.  She  caught  up  the  lantern,  whilst  he  Went  in  and 
seized  the  bristling  creature,  crouching  upon  the  corpse, 
and  flung  it  out  among  its  lurking  companions. 

"  How  is  it  you  arc  in  the  dark?"  asked  Homer. 

"The  lamp  went  out,"  she  answered.  "There's  some  oil 
in  the  cupboard." 

He  held  the  lantern,  whilst  she  filled  and  re-lit  the  lamp. 
Then  he  explained  his  presence. 

"  How  good  you  are!"  said  Myron. 

"Good?"*  he  said,  his  eyes  fastening  upon  her  forlorn 
figure  bending  over  the  cradle,  for  My  was  stirring. 

"Good?"  Then  he  burst  forth,  "What  beasts  these 
women  are  to  leave  you  alone!" 

"  It  was  dreadful,"  she  said,  trembling.  "  The  darkness, 
the  noises,  the  loneliness— those  eyes,  and  her!"  looking 


y' 


Ttl^   UN  TEMP  EKED  U  IND 


ili 


towards  the  inner  room.  Tlien  siuldeiily  she  caught  his 
sleeve:  "Don't  leave  me  till  dayliglit,  will  you?  Oh, 
don*t!  I  can't  stay  alone;  I  am  frightened!  1 — oh, 
don''t  leave  me,  will  you?" 

"Leave  you?  Of  course  not.  I  wish-  — ,"  ho  chocked 
himself  uhruptly.  It  was  on  his  ton^^nio  to  say,  "I  wish  I 
might  icver  leave  you,"  hut  a  sense  of  lier  ahsolute  isolation 
smote  him  so  keenly  that  the  words  stuck  in  his  throat. 
Had  he  spoken  theii,  how  many  things  might  have  been* 
dii!ereii  ,  lor  Myron,  in  her  utter  loneliness,  was  ready  to 
cling  to  any  outstretched  hand. 

"  I'm  going  to  make  you  some  tea,"  he  said. 

(loing  to  the  bedroom  door,  ho  dosed  it,  took  his  lan- 
tern out  to  the  littlf^  "lean-to"  Avoodslied,  and  split  up  some 
bits  of  lightwood ;  with  these  he  roused  tht  dying  lire  to 
life.  With  much  precision,  he  put  on  tho  kettle,  and 
when  it  boiled  asked  in  a  matter-of-fact  wuv  for  the  tea. 

Myron  rose,  with  My  half  awake  in  her  arms,  and  went  to 
tho  pantry-shelf  to  get  it.  It  wha  chill  there:  -^he  wrapped 
her  apron  about  My's  bare  toes.  Ho  soon  went  to  sleep 
again,  and  Myron  Holder  and  Homer  Wilson  sat  down 
together  to  drink  tho  tea.  Her  eyes  rested  upon  iiim,  as  if 
Avell  content,  and  he  noted  this  with  delight.  The  ti  th 
was  they  dared  not  yet  stray  elsewliere,  lest  tho  spectres  ho 
had  banished  might  jibber  at  her  from  the  dusky  corners 
of  tho  room. 

Love  is  served  on  strange  altars,  and  the  sacrifice  of  a 
heart  was  again  proffered  in  that  lonely  cottage,  whose 
atmosphere  was  chill  with  the  dreadful  influence  of  death, 
whose  silence  was  broken  by  tho  soft  breathing  of-  a  child 
of  shame.  Homer  looked  upon  the  woman  of  his  heart 
and  loved  her.  When  the  first  breaking  of  the  skies 
ushered  in  the  dawn,  ho  left. 

The  women  returned  early,  for   it  was  considered  an 


i 


SMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3} 


1.0 


1.1 


lit 

us 

u 


IM 


2.0 


L25  i  1.4 


I 
III  1.6 


^ 


Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WtST  MAIN  STRUT 

WIMTIII.N.Y.  14SM 

(716)  872-4S03 


'^ 


'k^ 


,% 


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1 


\::^j,:xiJ^JsLSiA'ii^,.^:,Xk;JM^-^-j^^^ 


m 


THE   VNTEMPEKED  WIND 


w 


I* ' 


honorable  thing  to  have  the  ordering  of  a  funeral — to  be 
able  to  speak  ex  cathedra  of  the  mode  of  procedure. 

Mr.  Muir  came.  The  last  ghastly  toilet  for  the  grave 
was  made.  Nothing  remained  but  to  wait  for  the  morrow, 
when  the  funeral  was  to  be. 

The  women  looked  at  her  curiously  when  they  came  that 
morning,  and  Mrs.  Warner  expressed  the  sentiment  of  the 
rest  when  she  said :  "  That  Myron  Holder  is  bad  clean 
through.  Any  other  woman  would  have  been  drove  crazy 
last  night;  but  look  at  her!  She's  a  hardened  one!" 
Mrs.  Warner  did  not  consider  that  this  speech  cast  any 
reflection  upon  herself  and  her  friends  who  had  subjected 
a  woman  to  an  ordeal  calculated  to  drive  her  crazy. 

Night  sank  slowly  down;  and  once  more  the  women, 
departing,  cast  wondering  glances  at  Myron's  pale  face, 
steadfast  in  the  knowledge  that  she  would  have  some  one 
near  her  to  chase  those  horrid  visions  away. 

When  Homer  arrived,  she  was  sitting  beside  her  sleeping 
child,  sewing  upon  an  old  black  skirt  of  hev  grandmother's 
that  some  of  the  women,  with  an  eye  to  funeral  effects, 
had  pinned  up  to  suit  her  shorter  stature,  and  bade  her 
sew,  that  she  might  be  properly  clothed  on  the  morrow. 
The  work  was  nearly  done,  and  the  needle  hung  loosely  be- 
.tween  her  listless  lingers.  Her  eyes  ached  for  lack  of  sleep ; 
every  joint  trembled  from  fatigue;  every  nerve  tingled 
from  overstrain. 

She  greeted  Homer  more  by  a  gesture  than  by  speech, 
and  perceiving  her  exhaustion,  he  insisted  upon  her  rest- 
ing. She  made  some  demur,  but  he  overruled  it  with  a 
word.     She  rose  a  little  unsteadily,  and  bent  over  My. 

"Where  do  you  want  him  taken?"  asked  Homer,  and 
lifted  him  in  his  arms. 

She  led  the  way  to  the  little  bedroom  off  the  kitchen, 
opposite  to  the  one  in  which  her  grandmother  lay. 


Tlt^   UI^TEMPEKED  IV/JVP 


tii 


Homer  laid  My  down  upon  tlie  blue  and  white  checked 
counterpane — spun  in  England  by  Myron's  mother. 

"  Good-night!"  he  said.     "  Uood-night,  Myron !" 

"  Good-night !"  she  answered  in  almost  a  whisper,  for  she 
was  inexpressibly  weary.  Almost  before  he  had  reached 
tiie  next  room,  she  had  si^nk  down  upon  her  bed 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  Myron  awoke  and  rose, 
chilled  and  stiff.  Utter  weariness  had  overcome  the  discom- 
fort of  her  cramped  position;  slie  had  slept  as  she  had 
first  thrown  herself  down;  she  shivered  as  one  does  who 
has  slept  in  his  clothes.  The  morning  air  was  cold,  and 
the  window-panes  glistened  with  frost. 

Hurrying  out  to  the  kitchen,  she  found  Homer  had 
done  what  he  could  for  her  comfort  before  leaving.  The 
stove  held  a  glowing  mass  of  hardwood  embers;  evidently 
the  fire  had  been  well  banked  up  before  he  stole  away  at 
dawn.  The  kettle  stood  singing  on  the  stove;  the  table 
was  drawn  up  by  the  fire,  and  awkwardly  set  out  with 
dishes  for  her  solitary  breakfast. 


I- 


The  hour  of  the  funeral  was  at  hand. 

Mr.  Muir,  determined  to  have  nothing  to  blame  himself 
for  in  regard  to  his  bargain,  had  come  dressed  in  hisoflicia] 
broadcloth.  His  horses  stood  outside  the  gate  in  all  the 
panoply  of  sable  plumes  and  black  fly-netting,  the  latter 
surely  superfluous,  but  ornamental.  These  horses  looked  as 
if  they  had  never  appeared  before  a  less  stately  equipage  than 
a  hearse,  yet  every  one  had  seen  them  pass  that  very  morn- 
ing dragging  an  unpaintcd  lumber-wagon.  They  looked 
as  if  they  had  never  known  a  baser  burden  than  "  stained 
cherry  with  mahogany  finish,  plated  handles  and  bevelled 
glass,"  yet  an  unplaned  pine  box  had  constituted  their  load 
that  morning;  and  as  they  passed,  each  on-looker  had  said 
to  the  other,  "There  goes  old  Mrs.  Holder's  shell." 


i  ! 


176 


THE    UMTEMPERED   IV/NI) 


"Who's  Myron  Holder  goin'  with?"  said  Gamaliel 
Deans  to  his  mother,  as  they  drove  along  to  the  village 
the  day  of  Mrs.  Holder's  funeral. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  ^\is  mother.  "  Mrs.  AVarner's 
took  a  mighty  lot  to  do  with  everything,  so  like's  not 
she'll  take  her." 

"  Seems  to  me  Mrs.  Warner's  been  putting  herself  for- 
ward some,"  suggested  Gamaliel,  di^olomatically. 

"Indeed  she  has,"  agreed  Mrs.  Deans;  "enough  sight 
more'n  she's  got  any  call  for — considerin'  all  things." 

They  passed  the  little  graveyard,  silent  beneath  the  light 
snow. 

"Is  there  any  track?"  asked  Mrs.  Deans,  looking  across 
the  white  expanse,  with  her  hands  shielding  her  rheumy 
eyes. 

"Yes,"  said  Gamaliel,  "the  shell  was  took  out  this 
morning ;  you  can  see  it  from  here. "  He  gazed  interestedly 
across  to  where  the  corner  of  an  unpainted  pine  box 
showed  as  the  terminus  of  an  ugly  black  track  which  the 
wheels  of  Mr.  Muir's  wagon  had  scarred  upon  the  snow. 

They  drove  on  without  further  speech.  The  first  snow 
had  fallen  in  the  night.  It  lay  now  white  and  untrodden, 
over  field  and  lane,  over  bush  and  tree,  over  house  and 
barn.  The  air  seemed  spaced  in  vistas  of  cloudy  hite- 
ness,  a  purity  which  suffused  itself  in  the  atmosphere,  and 
seemed  to  fill  it  with  particles  of  impalpable  white  dust 
that  the  motionless  air  held  in  suspension.  The  trees 
glistened  in  the  sun,  whose  rays  were  silver  instead  of  gold. 
All  the  world  was  rimed  with  hoar  frosts-nature  presenter', 
in  beautiful  parable,  the  story  of  the  iron  hand  in  the  vel- 
vet glove ;  for,  despite  the  whiteness,  the  softness,  and  the 
silvery  sun,  it  was  intensely  cold. 

Presently  through  this  white  world  there  wended  the 
gloomy  little  funeral,  the  more  gloomy  for  the  lack  of  any 


5^ 


TJIE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


177 


real  grief.  They  reached  the  graveyard,  where  gaped  an 
ugly  brown  gash,  beside  which  the  earth  lay  in  frozen 
clods. 

Mr.  Prew's  brief  prnyer  was  ended,  and  he  departed, 
stamping  his  feet.  There  was  the  bustle  as  the  coffin  was 
lowered;  then,  one  by  one,  the  onlookers  straggled  away; 
one  by  one  the  vehicles  departed,  until  Myron  Holder  was 
left  alone  by  the  grave — yet  not  wholly  so,  for  My  shivered 
in  her  aims,  and  old  Clem  Humphries  was  hastily  pushing 
the  earth  atop  the  coffin.  And  presently  Myron  became 
aware  that  there  was  another  patient  one  also,  for  Homer 
Wilson  came  to  her  side,  carrying  a  buffalo  robe  in  his 
arms.  He  laid  it  down  on  the  frozen  ground,  and,  taking 
her  arm,  drew  her  gently  towards  it.  She  looked  mute 
thanks  to  him  from  eyes  round  which  the  slow  tears  lin- 
gered, rimming  them  with  grief.  He  came  nearer  and 
hold  out  his  arms  to  My,  but  the  child  cowered  closer  to 
his  mother,  and  looked  at  Homer  from  the  vantage  of  her 
shoulder. 

The  little  group  embodied  all  the  stages  in  life's  progres- 
sion. There  was  the  child,  cowering  in  a  world  already 
cold  to  him.  There  was  the  woman,  bearing  in  her  coun- 
tenance the  ineffaceable  traces  of  woman's  agony.  There 
was  the  young  man,  strong  in  the  choice  of  will  and  heart; 
the  old  man,  drawing  the  last  coverlet  over  the  last  sleep; 
and,  severed  from  these  by  only  a  short  depth  of  kindred 
substance,  she  who  had  passed,  her  bed  rapidly  rounding 
to  a  giave. 

At  last,  Clem  began  i)atting  the  mound  with  the  back 
of  his  spade ;  his  work  was  nearly  done.  Each  ccholess  blow 
struck  upon  Myron's  heart;  and,  thinking  of  the  shame 
she  had  wrought  the  dead  woman,  she  dealt  herself  those 
blows  that  she  had  been  accustomed  to  endure  froi^  her 
grandmother's  bitterness. 


v^ 


i-ij'jl'U«iJ'Sflffl?ll 


I 


M 


178 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


Homer  broke  the  silence,  which  seemed  deepened  instead 
of  lightened  by  the  thud-thud  of  the  spade. 

"Come,  Myron,"  he  said;  "you  better  go  home." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  heavily,  "  I  may  as  well;"  and  she 
turned  to  the  footpath  that  led  across  the  graveyard  to  the 
road. 

" Not  that  way,"  said  Homer;  "the  horses  are  here." 

"The  horses!"  she  said;  "the  horses!  Is  your  mother 
waitin'  for  me?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  a  little  grimly.  "No,  she  isn't; 
but  I  am,  and  the  horses  are." 

He  recalled  the  stormy  little  scene  his  mother  had  made 
but  a  little  while  ago :  her  contemptuoi.a  words  when  he 
asked  her  to  wait;  the  scornful  and  bitter  accusation  she 
had  flung  at  him  \  it  had  leaped  forth  from  her  lips  like 
an  arrow  held  long  at  the  bowstring.  It  was  barbed  with 
all  the  poison  of  accumulated  suspicion,  and  winged  by 
the  impulse  of  unreasoning  anger,  such  as  springs  within 
mean  breasts  against  hands  that  succor  them;  but  it  had 
reacted  swiftly  upon  herself,  for  at  the  words  something 
came  into  her  son's  eyes  not  good  to  see — a  blending  of 
surprise,  indignation,  denial,  that  paled  his  face,  and  made 
it  implacable.  Before  it  Mrs.  Wilson  faltered  in  her 
tirade,  wavered  in  her  steps,  and  finally  turned  and,  cross- 
ing quickly  to  where  Gamaliel  was  waiting  for  his  mother, 
was  soon  seated  with  Mrs.  Deans  in  the  back  seat. 
Gamaliel  backed  his  horses  slowly  out  of  the  throng,  and 
they  drove  away. 

The  incident  had  not  been  unnoticed,  but  no  comment  had 
been  made,  although  meaning  looks,  of  which  Homer  now 
knew  the  interpretation,  were  exchanged.  He  had  seen 
some  such  looks  pass  between  his  neighbors  of  late.  A  hot, 
impotent  rage  filled  his  heart  against  the  false  position  in 
Fhich  be  was  placed^  but  it  did  not  alter  Jjis  determinatioji^ 


THE    UN  TEMPER  ED   IVEVD 


179 


"Are  you  waiting  for  anything,  Homer?"  Mr.  Warner 
could  not  refrain  from  calling  out  before  starting. 

"  Yes.  What  of  it?"  said  Homer,  turning  round 
sharply.  His  brows  were  knit,  his  lips  firm;  an  interro- 
gation, not  defiant,  but  direct,  was  expressed  in  every  line 
of  face  and  figure.  "  Yes,"  he  said  again,  and  unmis- 
takable interrogation  this  time  made  the  answer  a  question. 

Mr.  Warner  snook  the  reins  hastily  over  his  horses. 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing,"  he  said,  "I  was  only  won- 
dering." 

Homer  turned  away  abruptly.  "  Better  keep  his  wonder- 
ment to  himself,"  he  muttered,   with  a  frown.     "They 

better   all  keep  their  amazement  to  themselves   or " 

his  hand  clinched  in  ^  very  suggestive  fashioi?.  Then  he 
had  gone  for  the  buffalo  robe  for  Myron  to  stand  on,  and 
as  he  gazed  at  her  forlorn  figure  his  anger  changed  to 
deep  and  abiding  pity,  to  stern  and  righteous  wrath.  So 
Homer  drove  Myron  home  to  the  cmjity  cottage,  with 
Clem  Humphries  sitting  in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon,  with 
his  feet  dangling  over  the  tailboard,  a  quid  of  tobacco  in 
his  mouth,  peace  within  his  bosom.  Clem  was,  as  he 
expressed  it,  "a  dollar  to  the  good,"  and  he  was  meditating 
unctuously  upon  the  quantity  of  good  Canadian  Rye  he 
could  buy  with  the  money,  and  speculating  where  he 
could  beg,  borrow,  or  (be  it  admitted)  steal  a  jug.  He  had 
no  mind  to  pay  for  one  out  of  the  dollar. 

Mr.  Prew,  the  minister,  passed.  He  regarded  Homer  and 
Myron  with  incredulous  horror,  and  returned  Homer's 
somewhat  brusque  greeting  in  a  very  scandalized  •  way. 
Clem  took  off  hij  hat  with  a  labored  flourish;  Mr.  Prew 
returned  his  salute  with  condescending  affability,  and 
drove  on  to  Mrs.  Deans',  where,  presently,  over  hot  soda- 
biscuits,  doughnuts,  and  other  good  things,  he  praised 
Plem  as  "  nn  humble,  but  ver^  worthj  old  mao^ " 


m 


■-  (ii 


I 


i8o 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


"Humbugging  old  hypooiite!"  ejrculiitcd  tlic  "worthy 
old  man,"  as  soon  as  his  pastor  w;i  out  of  l)earing.  "  Mis- 
eiable,  designing  old  cuss  he  is.  I'd  like  to  use  him  for 
bait!"  Then  this  humble  follower  relapsed  into  his 
reverie  upon  the  modus  02)erandi  of  getting  a  jug. 

No  other  words  were  uttered  during  the  ride.  Ilr.iier 
and  Myron  were  both  silent;  botli  knew  that  Homer  had 
flung  down  the  gauntlet  to  the  gossips;  both  realized  the 
import  of  the  step ;  both  pondered  upon  its  significance 
from  the  village  point  of  \\qv. 

Clem  jumped  off  nimbly  when  they  were  opposite  Mr. 
Muir's  verdant  veranda. 

"You  are  not  angry  with  mc,  Myron?"  asked  Homer. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  cried;  "you  are  so  good  to  me." 

"I'm  good  to  you  for  my  own  sake,"  he  answered. 
"Don't  you  see  that?  Don't  you  suppose  I  am  looking 
out  for  my  own  happiness?"  He  paused.  "Don't  you 
think  I  am?"  he  resumed,  an  insistent  note  in  his  voice. 

They  were  near  the  cottage,  but  she  felt  obliged  to  answer. 

"But,  Homer,"  she  said,  "I  have  no  happiness  to  give 
anyone!     What  return  can  I  make  for  this  sacrifice?" 

They  were  opposite  the  cottage.  Clustered  heads  in  the 
window  of  the  Warner  house  showed  how  their  return  had 
been  waited  for;  Homer  discerned  the  white  muslin  rose 
in  his  mother's  black  bonnet,  and  if  the  sight  made  his 
face  hard,  it  softened  the  touch  of  his  hands  as  he  lifted 
Myron  down  from  the  high  seat,  and  then  put  the  boy  in 
her  arms. 

The  little  gate  stood  leaning  against  the  fence.  It  had 
been  lifted  off  its  hinges,  to  leave  free  room  for  the  coffin 
and  its  bearers  to  pass.  Myron  paused  between  the  gate- 
posts; Homer  bent  above  hor. 

"I  will  tell  you  some  da^;  '  iie  3^id;  "  what  you  can  give 


CiLt  C  SOf^ 


*'  I   WILL  TELL   YOU   SOME   DAY   WHAT   YOU   CAN   GIVE  ME,"/ 


/      <        t 


THE  I'NT/'.Arr/cKi'.n  hind 


iRi 


"Gootl-by,"  she  said;  and,  tiirnin<,%  i>asscd  down  tlio 
desolate  garden,  feeling  remorseful  that  slio  had  left  him 
unthanked. 

Homer,  now  that  the  tenderness  evoked  by  her  presence 
was  left  unsustjiined,  felt  a  spiteful  deliance  waken  in  his 
heart.  Jle  walked  slowly  to  his  horsos'  heads,  pretending 
to  adjust  the  harness;  then,  after  iiuSpeeting  them  with 
critical  deliberateness,  drove  slowly  past  the  curious  eyes  at 
the  window. 

"Might  as  well  give  them  the  full  bcnelit  of  the  sight," 
he  said  to  liimself ;  "  it  seems  to  strike  them  as  interesting." 

All  day  long,  as  he  swung  his  axe  in  the  woodland,  he 
mused  npon  Afyron  as  he  had  seen  her  last,  with  pure, 
uplifted  brow  and  chin,  as  she  said  good-by. 

He  returned  at  night,  calm,  and  braced,  as  he  tliouglit, 
to  receive  a  storm  of  reproaches.  He  found  a  table 
"  coklly  furnished  forth"  for  his  supper;  the  kitchen  was 
deserted,  and  from  his  mother's  room  came  the  hum  of 
voices. 

Mrs.  Wilson  expected  to  crush  her  son  utterly  by  this 
isolation,  but  it  was  a  treatment  he  could  endure  much 
longer  than  she  could  suffer  to  inflict  it,  for  to  women  of 
her  type  the  expression  of  auger  in  words  is  essential; 
any  repression  of  speech  is  a  physical  pang.  It  was  well, 
though,  for  this  one  night  that  it  should  be  so,  for 
Homer's  calm  was  but  as  the  brittle  crust  that  forms  on 
seething  lava,  that  neither  controls  nor  cools  it;  that  melts 
at  a  touch,  and  offers  no  restraint  to  the  force  beneath. 
Too  hot  an  anger  yet  fdled  his  heart  to  admit  of  peaceful 
argument;  his  hand  was  too  ready  to  clincli  yet  when  he 
thought  of  Warner's  tentative  rpiestion.  He  ate  his  sup- 
per, smoked  a  peaceful  pipe,  ar.d  soon  slept,  dreaming, 
even  as  he  had  done  all  day,  of  the  calm  sweetness  of 
those  patient  eyes. 


'     t 

;      9 

' 

1          ^^B 
1^1 

1 

I82 


THE    UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


Myron  was  having  lior  first  of  solitude,  passing  it  in 
brief  watches  of  wakefiihiess  and  sliortcr  spaces  of  sleep. 

And  in  the  lonely  little  graveyard  a  new-made  mound 
was  slowly  whitening  under  the  falling  snow. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"This  ii])ovc  all— to  thine  own  self  be  true  ; 
And  it  must  foHow,  as  tlie  ni^ht  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man.  " 

"Tliough  Allah  and  Earth  pardon  8in,  remaineth  forever  Remorse.  " 

Winter  lay  white  over  the  land — a  bitter  winter.  The 
road,  beaten  to  a  glassy  whiteness,  glistened  between 
unbroken  plains  of  dull,  lustreless  white,  for  the  fences 
were  bidden  by  the  heaviest  snowfall  ever  known  in  James- 
town. Tlie  cold  was  intense;  for  twenty  days  the  icicles 
had  hung  unmcltcd  in  the  sun.  The  crows,  tamed  by 
hunger,  Happed  their  sluggish  wings  over  the  barnyards. 
Here  and  there  in  the  fields  a  black  blotch  showed  where 
one  of  them  had  fallen,  half-starved,  half-frozen. 

The  foxes,  grown  bold  amid  the  silence,  came  to  pillage 
the  henroosts  in  broad  daylight.  The  rabbits,  traced  by 
their  uneven  tracks  in  the  snow,  were  easy  game;  numbctl 
by  the  cold,  they  were  quickly  overtaken.  The  sparrowa 
clustered  close  together  in  the  barns,  winning  their  way 
in  at  evv^ry  cranny. 

The  last  year  of  Jed  Holder's  life,  he  had  one  day  lun 
into  the  cottage,  excitedly  calling  to  Myron  and  his  mother 
to  "Come  out  and  see  the  sparrow — a  real  little  English 
sparrow,  a  regular  old-fashioned  little  spadger."  Tears 
ran  over  his  thin,  browned  face  as  he  watched  it  upon  the 


THE    VN  TEMPER  ED   WIXD 


183 


Hliiirp  ridgo  of  tlio  (!ottMg(»  roof,  llo  roiiM  not  cut.  liis 
wood  tluit  (hiy  for  li8tt'Jiiii«^  to  tlio  finniliar  tliittoriiii^'  of  its 
wings  as  it  llittcd  hitlior  und  tbitlier  in  tlic  cottage  gar- 
den, pushing  its  wjiy  inquisitively  into  tlie  thi(^kest 
brandies  of  tlie  privet  buslies  and  bustling  out  indignantly 
when  it  found  iiotliing  there  worthy  of  its  impertinent 
scrutiny. 

It  eyed  Jed  v;1l)i  much  friendliness.  Two  English  exiles 
indeed  these  were — banished  from  the  red-tiled  cottages, 
tlie  hop  orchards,  the  old  meadows,  the  sunken  lanes,  the 
hawthorns,  the  hollies;  but  in  a  few  days  there  came 
another  fluttering  sparrow,  and  resemblance  ceased  be- 
tween Jed  and  the  important,  bustling  bird,  busy  now  in 
building  the  nest.  Ere  the  summer  was  gone  there  was 
a  chattering  little  flight  of  them  to  swoop  down  among  the 
placid  hens  and  snatch  the  grain  from  their  very  mouths. 

Now  these  birds  were  regarded  by  the  farmers  as  a  pest, 
and  an  overzealous  government  offered  a  bounty  for  their 
little  feathered  heads.  Clem  Humphries  proved  himself  a 
valiant  hunter  of  this  puny  prey.  He  boiled  barley  and 
then  drew  a  stiff  bristle  through  each  grain.  The  spar- 
rows ate  and  died,  and  Clem  drank  their  blood-money. 

But  they  still  flourished.  The  cats  waged  war  against 
them,  and  many  a  palpitai  little  breast  was  torn  by 
their  pointed  teeth.  The  oln  Maltese  cat  at  Deans'  had 
perpetually  a  downy  feather  sticking  to  his  cruel  mouth, 
and  his  strong  paws  were  ever  stained  with  red.  An  ugly 
brute  he  was:  half  of  one  ear  was  gone;  from  the  other, 
hung  a  tiny  blue  wool  tassel  fastened  through  a  hole  like 
an  earring;  his  nose  was  always  scarred  and  torn,  and  of 
his  tail  only  an  inch  or  two  survived  the  teeth  of  the  dogs 
with  which  he  had  waged  war. 

He  lay  in  wait  for  the  sparrows  by  the  hour  at  the  door- 
step of  the  henhouse,  and  with  depressed  back  and  evii 


1^ 

r 


1 84  THE    UNTEMTERED   WIND 

eye  stole  between  the  fowls  as  they  pecked  at  the  grain ; 
then  came  a  pounce,  the  hens  flounced  about  hysterically, 
and  the  cat,  with  his  captive,  came  out  to  sit  in  the  wood- 
shed and  devour  it  at  his  leisure.  The  first  time  he 
caught  a  bird,  he  had  tried  to  torment  it  after  the  tender 
manner  of  his  kind;  but  at  the  first  toss  with  his  paws  the 
terrified  bird  had  soared  far  beyond  his  most  vaulting 
ambition.  But;  alas,  evil  minds  learn  wisdom  soon.  It 
was  long  since  then,  and  now  he  always  gave  them  short 
shrift. 

It  was  a  bitter  winter.  The  horses  and  cows  were  cov- 
ered with  exceptionally  long  hair,  and  the  dogs  were  shaggy 
as  bears.  The  hens  straggled  about  with  bleeding,  frozen 
combs;  the  yellow  feet  of  the  ducks  were  white  from 
frostbites;  the  turkeys'  wings  drooped  dejectedly,  and 
many  died;  the  geese  were  disconsolate,  their  white  plum- 
age soiled  and  unsightly,  for  there  was  no  water  for  them 
to  baiihe  in. 

The  snowbirds  twittered  cheerily  for  a  short  space  at 
noontide,  but  vanished  as  the  day  waned.  Only  where 
any  crumbs  or  grain  might  be  likely  to  fall,  their  tiny 
footprints  were  woven  in  delicate  tracery  on  the  snow. 

The  gulls  flew  over  the  village,  until,  their  wings 
wearied,  they  turned  them  again  to  the  lake,  to  rest  upon 
a  cake  of  ice.  A  long  rest  it  proved  to  many,  for  their 
feet  froze  to  the  ice,  and  they  uttered  their  hoarse  cries 
as  they  strove  in  vain  to  rise. 

It  was  a  bitter  winter.  Every  pond  in  »)amestown  waia 
frozen  solid  to  the  bottom.  All  day  long  there  were  slow 
processions  of  cattle  passing  to  and  from  the  lake. 

The  pumps  were  all  frozen,  and  a  great  boiler  stood  on 
every  kitchen  stove,  melting  snow  .'o?  household  uses. 
The  rats  swarmed  in  the  houses  iind  the  barns.  Each  per- 
son had   tales  to  tell  of  frozen   noses,  frostbitten  ears, 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


185 


iHunbed  fingers,  aching  feet.  Mrs.  Wilson  brewed 
"yarbs"  and  drank  them  all  day  long.  Henry  Deans 
grew  stiffer  and  stiffer,  and  seemed  shrunk  to  a  mere  shell. 
Bing  White  had  already  killed  enough  sparrows  to  buy 
him  a  pair  of  skates. 

But  in  the  midst  of  all  the  winter's  white  desolation, 
there  glowed  the  hearth  fires  of  home.  Used  to  the  cold, 
these  hardy  farmer  folk  defied  it;  and  if  the}  might  not 
brave  its  blasts,  stayed  warm  and  close  indoors. 

There  were  tea-meetings  and  socials,  temperance  meet- 
ings and  the  half-yearly  revivals,  shooting  matches  with 
poultry  as  the  prize,  and  raffles  for  turkeys.  Then  there 
was  the  threshing  to  be  done,  and  the  pig-killing,  and  next 
summer's  fuel  to  cut  in  the  woods. 

The  women  sewed  carpet-rags,  patched  quilts,  and 
knitted  mittens  and  heavy  socks  of  homemade  yarn.  It 
was  a  terrible  winter,  and  it  was  going  hard  with  Myron 
Holder. 

She  h'ad  to  endure  all  the  rigors  of  the  cold,  all  the  soli- 
tude of  shame,  all  the  privations  of  poverty,  all  the  terrors 
of  night's  loneliness,  all  the  anxieties  of  motherhood,  all 
the  regrets  of  remorse,  all  the  hopelessness  of  dead  Hope, 
all  the  apprehensions  of  want :  this  in  a  solitary  cottage, 
creaking  at  every  blast,  shivering  in  every  wind,  swaying 
in  every  storm. 

Think  of  it,  you  holy  women,  who  fare  delicately,  sleep- 
ing on  soft  couches,  guarded  and  consoled,  caressed  and 
kept  from  all  evil !  For  you  are  like  Myion  Holder  jn  one 
thing:  Not  in  suffering,  nor  shame,  nor  sorrow;  not 
perhaps  in  humbleness  of  heart,  nor  meekness  of  spirit, 
nor  in  courage,  in  patience,  in  faithfulness,  nor  in  hope- 
lessness; not  in  poverty,  nor  in  endurance;  but  with  her 
you  share,  despite  yourselves,  a  common  womanhood.  Re- 
member that! 


1 86 


THE   UNTEMPERED   iVIND 


Remember  also  she  bore  upon  her  brow  the  marks  of 
motherhood's  crown  of  thorns.  Remember  who  with  tears 
washed  Jesus'  feet,  and  do  not  forget  to  whom,  we  are 
told,  He  said,  "Neither  do  I  condemn  thee.'' 

Homer  Wilson,  in  defiance  of  his  mother,  public  opin- 
ion, and  Myron's  own  objections,  had  taken  her  ample 
wood  for  the  winter.  Old  Mr.  Carroll  had  given  her  a 
supply  of  flour  and  a  ham,  and  hired  her  to  clean  up  his 
house  and  whitewash  his  kitchen  walls  against  the  New 
Year. 

She  milked  Mrs.  Warner's  cows  at  night  and  morn, 
receiving  for  this  service  a  small  can  of  milk  daily.  This 
was  for  My.  No  drop  softcied  the  harsh  mullein  tea  she 
drank  herself.  Her  life  was  inexpressibly  desolate.  The 
wind  whistling  over  the  cottage  brought  her  the  loneliness 
of  the  lost.  Sometimes  for  days  she  saw  no  one  to  speak 
to,  and,  worse  than  all,  she  began  to  lack  the  necessaries 
of  life.  Flour  means  much,  so  does  a  ham;  bat  for  a 
woman  and  a  young  child  more  is  needed.  My  began  to 
look  white,  and  at  times  his  face  had  that  expression  we 
called  "peaked." 

Seeing  this,  Myron  took  a  resolution.  It  cost  her  much, 
for  her  grandmother  had  often  spoken  of  the  disgrace  of 
"  going  on  the  parish,"  as  she  put  it;  but  the  sight  of  My's 
face  was  too  much  for  his  mother,  and  she  resolved  to 
apply  to  the  council  for  township  aid. 

It  was  a  bitter  day's  cold  when  she  came  to  this  resolu- 
tion. Pile  the  wood  as  high  as  she  might  in  the  stove,  she 
could  not  banish  the  rime  from  the  windows.  The  latch 
of  the  door  stuck  to  her  fingers  every  time  she  opened  it. 
A  tiny  slanting  rift  of  snow  lay  in  the  little  bedroom, 
where  it  had  crept  in  through  the  badly  jointed  windows. 
.  It  was  Saturday.  On  Saturday  nights  the  youths  of 
Jamestown  went  courting.      As  twilight  deepened   into 


f 


THE   UNTEMPEliED  WIND 


187 


irks  of 
,h  tears 
we  are 

c  opin- 
:  ample 
n  her  a 
a  up  his 
he  New 

a  morn, 
y.     This 
a  tea  she 
te.     The 
loneliness 
I  to  speak 
ecessaries 
oat  for  a 
began  to 
•ession  we 

ler  much, 
isgrace  of 
t  of  My's 
Bsolved  to 

his  resolu- 
stove,  she 

The  latch 

opened  it. 
bedroom, 
windows, 
youths  of 

3ened   into 


night,  she  heard  the  frequent  jingle  of  sloigli-bolls.  They 
tingled  through  her  hetirt  siiid  iiwakcned  a  now  loneliness 
iu  her  breast.  She  sat  always  in  the  dark  now,  for  oil 
cost  money.  She  had  but  a  lampful  in  the  house,  and 
that  must  be  kept  in  case  of  emergency.  The  light  from 
the  hearth  of  the  wooci  fire  shot  forth  dusky  little  flashes 
into  the  darkness  of  the  room.  These  feeble  shafts  were 
not  strong  enough  to  banish  tlie  hosts  of  shadows,  but 
they  so  far  prevailed  as  to  leave  them  lurking  in  the  cor- 
ners of  the  room  only  But  there  they  held  silent  car- 
nival— mocking  at  the  lonely  woman  sitting  silent  within 
the  wavering  circle  of  the  feeble  light,  stretching  out 
impalpable  arms  to  embrace  her,  extending  icy  fingers  to 
touch  her,  waving  their  draperies  over  her  head,  and 
always  biding  their  time,  until  weariness  should  drive  her 
to  her  bed;  then  they  sallied  forth  in  their  strength,  and 
danced  and  gestured  about  her  until  sleep  closed  her  eyes 
to  fears. 

My  slept  upon  her  knees.  The  sound  of  the  latest 
sleigh-bells  dying  away  left  the  silence  seeming  still  more 
profound,  as  a  momentary  light  intensifies  the  succeeding 
darkness.  She  heard  footsteps  crunching  on  the  snow; 
then  a  knock. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said. 

Despite  herself,  she  felt  a  momentary  hope  flicker  in 
her  heart. 

The  door  opened  and,  entering.  Homer  said : 

"It's  me,  Myron;  Homer  Wilson." 

So  faint  had  been  her  hope  that  she  scarce  felt  a  sting 
in  relinquishing  it. 

«  Yes,"  she  said.     "  Wait  until  I  light  the  lamp." 

She  did  so,  and  Homer  came  forward  into  the  light,  his 
broad  shoulders  seeming  to  fill  the  room  as  he  stood,  clad 
in  a  rough  frieze  coat  that  enveloped  him  from  shoulder 


'.mt^mmmaiKtm'm/Lmrmm 


188 


r//Jt    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


to  lieel.  He  took  it  off  silently,  laid  it  over  the  chair  she 
had  placed  for  him,  and,  going  at  once  to  her  side,  put  his 
hands  upon  her  shoulders. 

"Well,  Myron,"  he  said,  "do  you  remember  asking 
what  you  could  do  to  repay  me  for  what  I  had  done?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  knowing  that  her  time  of  trial  had 
come. 

"Then,"  he  said,  bending  over  her,  his  face  flushing, 
his  tones  vibrant,  "  I  can  tell  you  in  a  moment."  He 
paused,  to  steady  his  voice.     "  Will  you  marry  me,  Myron?" 

Tliere  was  a  moment  of  breathless  suspense — an  instant 
of  absolute  silence. 

"No,"  she  said,  firmly  enough;  but  her  hands  closed 
tremblingly  upon  his  sleeve. 

"Myron!"  he  ejaculated.  "Myron!  You  do  not  mean 
it!  Why — I  love  you,  Myron!"  lie  broke  forth,  with 
passion;  "I  will  have  you!  Do  you  think  I  would  be  bad 
to  you?  Do  you  think  I  would  be  unkind  to  the  boy?  I 
can't  stand  to  see  you  live  like  this!"  He  glanced  at  the 
bare  room,  which  suddenly  seemed  to  show  all  its  gaunt 
corners,  all  its  angles,  all  the  scantiness  of  its  meagre 
comforts.     It  was  the  very  skeleton  of  a  home. 

"Myron!"  He  stopped — she  was  looking  at  him  with 
words  upon  her  lips. 

"  Listen,"  she  said.  "Do  not  be  angry  with  me,  but  tell 
me  one  thing:  Would  you  ask  Suse  Weaver  to  marry  yoii, 
or  Jenny  Church,  or  Eliza  Disney?" 

"Why,  Myron,  they're  married  already,"  said  he,  in 
a  maze. 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Myron,  throwing  back  her  head  so  that 
her  eyes  met  his,  whilst  the  color  flooded  her  face,  giving 
it  a  dangerous  and  triumphant  charm.  "  So  am  I.  When 
he  bade  me  be  silent,  he  bade  me  be  true.  He  swore  that 
he  would  be.     He  explained  to  me  how  little  the  saying  of 


^!Pi>Hrrr". »..-.'-  u^i. 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


189 


marriage  vows  meant.  He  said  it  was  the  keeping  of  tliem 
that  made  the  marriage.  I  have  kept  them.  I  believed 
his  promise  under  the  sky,  whilst  we  were  alone,  was  as 
true  and  binding  as  mine  when  I  said  I  would  be  silent 
and  do  all  he  wished  me  to ;  and  he  taught  me  to  see  that 
in  this  twofold  faith  lay  the  real  marriage,  and  not  in 
words  spoken  before  people.  He  twid  me  the  stars  were 
truer  witnesses  than  men.  That  heaven  was  nearer  there, 
among  the  trees,  than  in  the  churches;  and  it  did  seem 
near — so  near  I  almost  entered  in.  I  believed  we  were 
married  as  sacredly  as.  though  Mr.  Prew  had  married  us. 
Believing  that,  I  gave  myself  to  him.  He  has  been  false 
to  his  promise,  but  I  will  never  be  to  mine.  I  thought 
myself  married  then.  I  will  hold  myself  in  marriage  bonds 
until  he  comes — or  death.  For  the  rest,  let  him  look 
to  it!" 

As  she  had  spoken,  Homer's  face  changed  with  her 
changing  words,  but  the  resignation  of  her  last  words 
inspired  no  calm  in  him;  it  woke  instead  a,  fierce  resent- 
ment. He  was  to  lose  her.  She  was  to  continue  to  suffer 
the  old  ignominy;  the  village  was  still  to  have  its  victim — 
and  all  for  a  brute  who  had  deliberately  deluded  and 
deserted  her.  Homer's  next  speech  began  with  an  impa- 
tient oath,  but  half  stifled. 

"  Myron,"  he  said,  his  tones  so  determined  as  to  be 
almost  harsh,  "have  you  not  realized  yet  how  false  his 
promises  were?  How  wrong  his  persuasions?  How 
utterly  false  and  untrue  all  this  fine  talk  about  the  'stars 
as  witnesses'  and  'heaven  being  near'  was?  The  stars  are 
very  convenient  witnesses  for  curs  of  his  stamp,  being 
silent  in  face  of  any  perjury.  Do  you  not  see  the  pit  he 
prepared  for  you?  Do  you  not  fall,  pierced  by  the  stakes 
at  the  bottom?  Do  you  not  see  that  his  promises  are  all 
lies?    Can  you  not  understand,  then,  that  the  rest  of  his 


U)0 


THE   VN  TEMPERED  WIMD 


twaddle  was  no  better?  Why  will  yon  continue  to  bind 
yourself  witli  a  wisp  of  straw?  Your  hands  are  free — give 
them  to  me!" 

"  I  realize  all — I  see  everything,"  she  cried,  "and  feel 
— God!  what  have  I  not  felt?  But — oh,  Homer,  don't 
you  see  how  it  is?  I  could  not  kiss  my  child — I  could 
not  endure  to  see  my  own  face  as  1  bend  over  the  well,  if  I 
thought  of  another  man.  Don't  you  see  I  would  then  be 
vile?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Homer.  "Marry  me — you  and  the 
hoy  will  have  my  name,  and  let  me  hear  man  or  woman 
say  one  word  against  it!" 

"I  can't,"  she  said. 

"Marry  me,"  he  urged.  "Let  me  take  care  of  you. 
Let  me  show  you  what  a  man  is.  Let  me  give  you  a  heart 
and  a  home.  You  are  lonely,  you  will  be  lonely  no  more ; 
defenseless,  I  will  protect  you ;  sad,  I  will  make  you  happy ; 
shamed,  I  will  compel  them  to  respect  you.  Myron" — he 
held  out  his  arms — "  marry  me!" 

Myron  Holder  had  thought  of  this  hour  ever  since  the 
day  of  her  grandmother's  funeral.  Her  thoughts  had  all 
been  of  his  pain.  She  had  never  realized  how  it  might  mean 
almost  intolerable  temptation  to  herself. 

The  contrast  between  the  picture  his  words  presented  and 
her  own  life  was  poignant.  She  stayed  a  moment,  gazing 
at  that  brighter  scene,  then  put  it  by  and  turned  herself 
to  the  reality  that  she  had  accepted  as  her  bounden  duty. 

The  sense  of  sacrifice  with  which  she  did  this  showed 
her  how  strong  was  the  sorcery  of  the  thought. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"Myron,"  said  Homer,  paling,  "don't  you  understand? 
I  will  take  My  as  my  own.  I  will  give  him  a  name  in  very 
truth.     I — for  My's  sake,  Myron!" 

It  was  the  supreme  temptation.     In  a  moment  Myron 


THE    UNTEMPEKED   WIND 


191 


saw  wliat  it  meant,  tlio  niatorializatiou  of  lier  evil  dream 
in  the  meadow — the  stilling  of  the  scandal  that  else  nuist 
attach  itself  forever  to  My;  the  ending  of  all  her  own 
shame  and  solitude,  or  as  much  of  it,  at  least,  as  appeared 
to  other's  eyes.  But  sorrow  and  shame  teach  subtle 
truths;  etched  clear  upon  the  metal  of  this  woman's  soul, 
burned  deep  upon  the  tablets  of  her  heart,  their  acids  hud 
graven  the  symbols  of  their  teachings.  Myron  had  battled 
against  many  fears,  and  knew,  with  the  absolute  certainty 
of  conviction,  that  after  the  first  triumph  there  would 
come  a  bitter  reaction.  She  knew  she  would  be  forever  at 
war  with  her  own  conscience.  She  knew  that  life  held  no 
prize  high  enough  to  pay  for  infidelity.  There  came  sud- 
denly athwart  the  dreary  room  the  mirage  of  another 
scene:  A  wide  stretch  of  sky  and  water,  blended  in  a  far- 
off  blue,  a  mass  of  tossing  tree-tops,  a  scent  of  fresh  green 
ferns  and  flowering  grasses,  a  swimming  sense  of  light, 
exhilaration,  freedom.  .  .  .  Homer  was  speaking.  She 
did  not  hear  his  words;  his  voice  was  but  an  oUigato  to 
other  tones  that  struck  across  it.  She  paid  no  more  heed 
to  Homer's  voice  than  she  had  done  that  day  to  the  rustle 
of  the  leaves,  the  whispering  of  the  water  far  below.  .  .  . 

"  Trust  me,"  a  voice  was  saying  in  her  ear.  "  Trust  me, 
I  will  never  leave  you;  believe  me,  I  will  never  fail  you. 
Why  do  you  distrust  me?  You  do  not  love  me.  Do  you 
not  understand  this  is  the  real  church,  more  holy  than  any 
building  made  with  hands.  Do  you  not  understand  it 
is  the  mutual  faith  makes  marriage,  and  not  mere  maun- 
dering words?  Don't  you?  .  .  .  So  long  as  you  are  true 
to  me,  you  are  in  very  truth  my  wife?"  .  .  .  The  voice 
ceased  there,  it  had  said  enough. 

The  sky,  the  water,  the  tree-tops,  and  the  fresh  fra- 
grance of  the  woodland  weeds  passed  in  an  instant;  but 
they  had  left  behind  an  unfaltering  resolution. 


19' 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


i 


"No,"  she  said;  aiicl  so  brief  a  time  liad sufTicctl  for  that 
retrosjiective  vision  that  Homer  did  not  remark  any  dehiy 
in  her  reply.  Only  his  heart  shrank,  for  something  in  her 
tone  besjioke  the  finality  of  hor  decision. 

The  disappointment  was  cruel.  He  dropped  into  a 
chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  She  knelt  before 
him,  and  pulling  his  hands  from  his  face  clasped  them 
close  against  her  breast.  She  looked  up  into  his  face  from 
eyes  that  spoke  of  tears  held  back  by  bitterness. 

"You  understand,  Homer?"  she  said.  "If  I  cannot 
justify  myself  in  my  own  eyes,  I  shall  go  mad.  To  do  so, 
I  must  indeed  remain  as  I  am.  I  must  act  as  thougli 
I  were  in  very  tmth  his  wife.  What  does  a  wife  do  for 
her  husband?  Give  up  all?  Have  not  I?  Suffer?  I 
have  suffered.  Obey  him?  I  have  o>)eyed  him.  Be  true 
to  him?  I  have  chosen  him  before  myself.  Trust  him? 
I  have.  I  have  trusted  and  waited,  I  Will  wait  to  the 
end." 

She  ceased. 

Homer's  eyes  left  her  face,  to  look  about  the  desolate 
room.  The  wood  fire  was  dying  for  lack  of  attention,  and 
the  air  was  growing  colder. 

"  But  how  am  I  to  make  it  easier  for  you?"  he  asked,  at 
length. 

"You  can't  make  it  easier  for  me,"  she  said.  "*I  have 
made  my  own  bed,'  as  grandmother  often  said,  and  must 
lie  on  it.  I  went  against  the  world's  ways,  and  I  suppose 
it's  only  right  now  to  expect'  the  world  to  be  against  me. 
No  one  can  help  me  but  him.'* 

"Who  is  he,  Myron?"  asked  Homer;  and  she  saw  a  sly, 
venomous  look  light  his  eyes. 

"Homer!"  she  said,  her  voice  holding  reproach  and 
interrogation. 

"Yes,  I  would,"  he  said.     "I  would  kill  him  as  readily 


THE    UN  TEMPERED    WIND 


i')3 


'or  that 
y  f^eluy 
;  in  her 

into  a 

before 

1  them 

30  from 

cannot 
)  do  so, 
thougli 

do  for 
ler?  I 
3o  true 
jthim? 

to  the 


lesolate 
m,  and 

ked,  at 

I  have 
i  must 
nppose 
ist  me. 

1  a  sly, 

h  and 

readily 


as  I  would  sot  my  jiCol  on  a  snake.  Widowa  marry!" 
There  was  axi  ugly  jmphasis  on  the  word,  an  emphasis 
that  held  unconsciously  somewhat  of  tlu)  derision  of  a 
sneer.  But  the  sneer  was  turned  against  his  own  in)po- 
tence. 

"You  are  frightening  me,"  said  Myron,  and  the  words 
brought  him  to  himself. 

He  rose,  drawing  her  to  her  feet  beside  him,  "  You  arc 
"'ght,  of  course,  Myron,"  he  said.  "But — this  is  the 
second  time  I  have  loved — you  remember  the  girl  I 
brought  to  the  farm  one  day?  Well,  I  loved  her.  She 
and  I  were  to  have  been  married,  but  I  had  to  come  back 
to  the  farm,  and  she  changed  her  mind.  iSince  then  I  have 
been  a  fool — worse,  indeed.  I  have  set  aside  everything 
for  the  sake  of  money.  I  was  fast  getting  to  be  such 
another  as  old  Haines  or  Jacob  Latshem — all  pocket  and 
no  heart.  But  I  saw  your  courage,  and  it  made  me  think 
shame  of  myself.  You  saved  me — I  thought  to  save  you. 
It  would  seem  as  if  I  had  offered  vou  another  shame. 
You  know  how  little  I  care  what  people  say  of  you !  Poor 
girl,  they  can't  say  worse  than  they  have  done.  So,  will 
you  let  me  do  what  I  can  to  make  things  better  for  you? 
You  know  I  have  plenty.  Will  you  let  me  bo  your  friend, 
to  help  jou,  comfort  you,  and  to  see  you  and  talk  with 
you,  as  friend  does  with  friend?" 

"Dare  you?"  she  asked. 

"Try  me,"  he  answered. 

She  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  it.  It  trembled  in 
his  grasp. 

"To  think,"  she  said,  "of  my  having  a  friend!"  The 
smile  that  lit  her  face  transfigured  it. 

Homer  put  from  him  the  desire  that  sv.elled  within  hit? 
heart  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  began  to  talk  of  lier 
position. 
18 


:35;-i 


mfsm 


III 


194 


77//i    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


\ 


"  You  ctin't  go  on  like  this,"  he  said.  ^ 

"  If  it  was  only  summer,"  sighed  Myron. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  went  on,  after  a  moment. 
*'  Clem  Humphries  and  Ann  Lemon  have  both  applied  for 
help  to  the  township.  They'll  have  to  be  boarded  some- 
where. Supposing  I  get  them  sent  to  you  to  board.  The 
township  would  allow  something  for  yourself  also."  Then 
he  added,  hastily,  "  WonH  you  let  me  give  you  enough  to 
put  you  through  the  winter?     Do,  Myron." 

"No,"  she  said,  answering  his  last  proposition  first, 
"but  I  would  be  so  glad  if  they'd  let  me  work  for  Clem 
and  Ann." 

"  Well,  I'll  see  about  it,"  said  Homer. 

A  day  or  two  after  that,  the  council,  of  which  Homer 
was  a  member,  met,  and  the  applications  of  Ann  Lemon 
and  Clem  Humiihries  were  laid  before  them.  Homer  roiio 
and  made  a  formal  projiosition  on  the  lines  which  he  had 
suggested  to  Myron.  It  was  carried  at  once.  Mr.  White 
was  tlie  other  Jamestown  member  of  the  council,  and  ho 
was  much  more  concerned  about  getting  home  to  take  his 
cattle  to  the  lake  to  water  them  than  about  anything  else. 
He  made  no  objection,  and  the  other  members  of  the 
council  had  matters  relative  to  their  own  districts  that 
they  were  anxious  to  have  considered.  The  council  meet- 
ings were  open  to  every  one,  and  the  school-house  was 
crowded  with  village  people.  Homer  observed  the  looks 
that  passed  from  one  to  another,  and  could  not  beat  back 
the  blood  that  reddened  nis  swarthy  checks  as  he  put  the 
formal  motion  before  the  council  "  on  behalf  of  one  Myron 
Holder." 

"  What  about  tlie  kid?  Don't  it  need  any  allowance ?" 
a  voice  said  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  another 
answered,  "  Oli,  Ilomer'll  attend  to  that."  A  roar  of 
laughter  followed,       Homer  grew  white  enough  when  he 


^i 


THE    UNTEMPKRED   WIND 


195 


was 


hoard  this,  ami  turned  a  look  toward  the  comer  whence 
the  voices  had  come  that  made  the  group  occupying  it 
stir  and  shift  about  uneasily  aiul  start  fragmentary  con- 
versations among  tlieniselvcs,  as  if  to  disarm  that  bitter  look 
and  disavow  the  speech  that  provoked  it. 

In  this  group  Homer  discerned  CJanudiel  Deans  and  Lou 
Disney,  the  latter  tlie  bully  of  the  county.  liou  and 
Oamaliel  had  been  running  together  all  winter,  and  rumor 
spoke  not  very  flatteringly  of  their  errands. 

The  meeting  dragged  along  wearisomely  to  an  end,  and 
the  men  thronged  out  from  the  close,  warm  schoolroom, 
where  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  fumes  of  tobacco  and 
reeking  with  the  moisture  evaporating  from  the  coats 
hung  against  the  wall,  for  it  had  been  snowing  when  the 
meeting  began. 

Night  was  just  beginning  to  fall.  It  had  ceased  to  snow, 
and  the  air  was  keen  with  intense  frost,  that  crackled 
under  foot  and  squeaked  beneath  the  runners  of  the 
sleighs. 

There  was  much  stretching  and  talking  and  laughing  as 
they  went  out,  and  Homer,  among  the  iirst,  heard  his  own 
name  uttered,  followed  by  a  laugh.  Then  he  heard  Lou 
Disney's  voice  in  a  disjointed  sentence — 

"Pretty  cheeky,  that!  First" — Homer  lost  the  words 
here — "and  then  ask  the  council  to  keep  'em." 

Homer  turned  in  an  instant,  flinging  himself  through 
the  crowd  with  the  relentless  impetus  of  fury.  He  swept 
the  throng  aside  regardless  of  any  obstacle,  and  seized  Lou 
Disney's  throat  whilst  the  words  still  lingered  on  his  lips, 
choking  in  that  first  fierce  grasp  the  laugh  that  gurgled 
up  to  echo  its  own  wit. 

In  a  silence  that  appalled  the  crowd,  used  at  such  a  time 
to  much  speech  and  few  blows,  Homer  tore  him  from  the 
4oor,  to  which,  with  the  instinct  of  a  fighter,  he  had  put 


{ 


1 


i|i 


n 


196 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


liis  back.  Pressing  him  backward  through  the  throng, 
Homer  loosed  him,  with  a  curse,  when  fairly  outside  the 
straggling  group. 

"Now,"  said  Homer,  "eat  your  words,  Disney,  this 
minute — every  lying  syllable  of  them — or  I'll  thrash  the 
Boul  out  of  you!" 

Disney  was  no  coward.  The  words  had  not  left  Homer's 
lips  before  he  was  tearing  off  his  coat.  The  next  moment 
they  rushed  at  each  other. 

The  fight  was  so  fierce,  so  furious,  so  short,  that  few 
there  could  afterwards  tell  the  story  of  it.  Disney  was  the 
bigger  man,  and  quite  as  clever  with  his  hands  as  Homer; 
but  the  latter's  arm  was  nerved  by  every  insult  Myron 
Holder  had  endured.  As  Disney  sprang  forward,  he 
uttered  her  name,  coupled  with  an  epithet  that  simply 
maddened  Homer.  There  was  no  resisting  the  fury  of  his 
attack.  .  .  .  Many  hands  dragged  Homer  from  the  man 
ho  had  knocked  insensible  and  bade  fair  to  kill,  if  left 
alone. 

He  stood  trembling,  a  great  bruise  darkening  on  his  face, 
showing  where  Disney's  first  savage  blow,  aimed  at  the 
jaw,  had  fallen.  Presently  Gamaliel  drove  Lou  off  in  his 
cutter,  and  the  throng  melted  away.  Clem  Humphries 
lifted  Homer's  coat  and  brought  it  to  him.  The  old  sin- 
ner's face  glowed  with  excitement  and  gratification. 

"  You  punched  him  well  and  he  needed  it  bad,"  said  he. 
"  Never  seen  a  man  suffering  for  a  licking  more'n  Lou 
Disney  was;  and  he  got  the  cure  for  his  complaint  with- 
out asking  twice,  he  did.  There's  something,"  he  went 
en,  keeping  pace  with  Homer,  as  the  latter  began  to  move 
away,  "  there's  something  so  satisfying  in  seeing  a  man  get 
v/hat  he  wants,  and  get  it  like  that,  too,  and — you  should 
have  seen  Male  Deans'  eyes,  sticking  out  like  door-knobs, 
the  boiled  idiot!" 


J.,. 


"^m^t^^^ 


tSCjftr-T-H 


: 


if 

'I 


CLEM  LIFTED  IIOMER'S  COAT  AND   BROUGHT  IT  TO   HIM, 


III 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


1^7 


Clem  parsed  in  disgust,  then  went  on  again :  "  Why 
didn't  you  lick  him,  Loo?  That  would  have  been  oncom- 
mon  satisfactory!" 

"There,  said  Homer  hastily,  "shut  up,  Clem!  Pm 
going  home."  Whereupon  he  lengthened  his  stride  and 
set  forward  at  a  pace  which  left  Clem  far  behind,  to 
make  his  way  towards  the  other  end  of  the  village,  with 
much  complacency.  His  wicked  old  heart  was  full  of 
pleasure.  He  had  danced  from  one  foot  to  the  other, 
howling  out  a  stream  of  encouragement  and  curses  during 
the  progress  of  the  brief  fight;  had  protested  vigorously 
aqjainst  the  hands  that  pulled  Homer  from  Disney,  and  had 
pushed  Gamaliel  Deans  forward  with  all  his  might  in 
Homer's  way,  hoping  to  enjoy  a  continuance  of  tlie  battle. 
Failing  this,  he  had  gone  along  behind  Disney  and 
Gamaliel  for  some  distance,  reviling  them  as  they  drove  off, 
until,  remembering  his  religious  principles,  he  had  arrested 
himself  in  the  delivery  of  a  choice  gibe,  to  slink  behind  the 
school-house  corner  until  the  crowd  was  gone. 

"  He  woke  up  the  wrong  dog  that  time,"  chuckled  Clem, 
thinking  of  Lou  Disney,  "  and  got  bit." 

Clem  had  a  bitter  grudge  against  Gamaliel  Deans  and 
every  one  connected  with  him.  The  day  of  old  Mrs. 
Holder's  funeral  Clem  had  searched  over  all  the  barns  he 
knew,  in  the  hope  of  finding  an  empty  jug  that  he  could 
take  to  get  his  dollar's  worth  of  whiskey  in.  But  luck 
was  against  him.  The  cider-jars  that  had  figured  at  the 
last  threshings  had  seemingly  all  been  carried  away.  He 
was  quite  disconsolate  when,  in  the  late  afternoon,  ho 
returned  to  Mr.  Muir's.  He  had  hardly  arrived  there 
before  Mrs.  Muir  sent  him  on  an  errand  to  Mrs.  Deans. 
Having  dispatched  his  message,  Clem  sought  the  barn,  and 
the  first  thing  his  eyes  lit  upon  was  a  fat  and  capacious 
brown  jug.     Gamaliel  was  in  the  barn  mending  harness, 


'tal^  i 


^S 


r 


■■a 


196 


THE    UNTEMPERED  Wn\'D 


and  to  Clem's  rr  jiiest  replied  that  he  might  take  it,  add- 
ing that  it  was  dsed  at  tiie  last  threshing. 

Clem  returned  to  the  village  late,  partook  of  the  some- 
what meagre  supper  Mrs.  Muir  tendered  him,  and,  going 
out  at  once,  got  his  jug,  rinsed  it  at  the  pump,  and  with  it 
under  his  arm,  trudged  off  to  town  to  get  it  filled. 

Now,  unfortunately  for  Clem,  it  had  not  contained  cider, 
but  black  oil,  for  the  threshing  machine.  There  was  a 
thick  coating  of  the  oil  within  it,  but  the  cold  had  fastened 
it  stiff  to  the  sides,  and  Clem's  somewhi  ,  perfunctory  wash 
with  the  icy  water  from  the  pump  did  not  remove  it.  All 
unconscious  of  this,  Clem  proceeded  upon  his  errand,  got 
his  whiskey,  and  started  for  Jamestown. 

Manfully  he  resisted  the  temptation  to  take  a  drink. 
Clem  knew  his  own  weakness  and  the  strength  of  his  ap- 
petite when  whetted  by  a  taste.  He  hugged  the  jug  close 
to  him  and  trudged  on.  At  length  he  reached  Jamestown, 
and  ensconced  himself  in  the  hay  in  Mr.  Muir's  stable-loft. 
But  the  alcohol  had  acted  very  differently  from  the  water. 
It  had  completely  dissolved  the  oil  and  incorporated  it 
with  itself.     Clem's  first  long  mouthful  was  his  last. 

The  mixture  was  atrocious.  Clem  cursed  till  he  ex- 
hausted himself,  arose  and  broke  the  jug  into  the  small- 
est fragments,  and  ever  after  hated  Gamaliel  Deans  with  a 
holy  hatred,  being  firmly  convinced  that  he  had  been  inten- 
tionally tricked.  Thus  it  was  that  Clem's  delight  was  so 
genuine  as  he  made  his  way  to  Mr.  Muir's  barn,  where  for 
the  present  his  headquarters  were.  .He  entered,  and,  with 
a  view  to  a  supper  of  3nacks  from  Mrs.  Muir,  proceeded  to 
attend  to  the  wants  of  the  two  black  horses  and  the  pie- 
bald mare,  stopping  to  slap  his  brown  old  hands  on  his 
thin  legs  every  now  and  then,  ejaculating,  "The  boiled 
idiot!" — a  pet  expression  of  Clem's,  not  inexpressive  of 
mental  softness. 


\ 


\ 


The  untempered  wind 


igO 


Clem  moved  about  stiffly,  and  it  was  some  time  before  he 
sought  Mrs.  Muir's  kitchen  door,  his  knobby  old  hands 
stiffened  and  glazed  from  holding  the  handle  of  the  hay- 
fork. But  not  only  had  Clem  accomplished  his  tasks  in 
the  barn,  but  eaten  his  supper,  warmed  himself  and 
crawled  ofE  to  his  bed  in  the  hay  before  Homer  Wilson 
arrested  his  headlong  walk.  He  had  gone  far  beyond  his 
farm — far,  far  beyond  the  farthest  light  of  Jamestown. 
But  at  last,  his  strength  leaving  him  suddenly,  he  paused 
and,  reeling,  turned  towards  home.  It  took  him  hours  to 
retrace  his  steps. 

The  late  dawn  c^  the  next  wintry  day  fell  upon  Homer 
as  he  had  flung  himself  down  upon  his  bed,  fully  dressed, 
and  with  shining  drops  drying  upon  the  livid  bruise  that 
disfigured  his  face. 


fiOO 


Tun    UN  TEMP  RUED   WIND 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  Piteous  my  rhyme  is 
What  while  I  muse  of  love  and  pain, 
Of  love  misspent,  of  love  in  vain, 
Of  love  that  is  not  loved  again ; 

And  is  this  all,  then  ? 
As  long  as  time  is, 
Love  loveth.     Time  is  but  a  span, 
The  dalliance  space  of  dying  man ; 
And  is  this  all  immortals  can? 

The  gain  was  «mall,  then. 

"Love  loves /<?r«®«?*/ 
And  finds  a  sort  of  joy  in  pain, 
And  gives  with  naught  to  take  again, 
And  loves  too  well  to  end  in  vain ; 

Is  the  gain  small,  then  ? 
Love  laughs  at '  never, ' 
Outlives  our  life,  exceeds  the  span 
Appointed  to  mere  mortal  man  ; 
All  which  love  is,  and  does,  and  can, 

Is  all  in  all,  then.  '* 

The  talk  that  grew  out  of  the  fight  at  the  school-house, 
the  scandal  that  succeeded  the  talk,  the  gossip  that  spread 
the  scandal,  occupied  the  attention  of  the  whole  village  for 
weeks,  and  the  darkest  shade  possible  was  cast  upon 
Homer's  share  of  the  affair.  Every  one  felt  it  a  species  of 
self-justification  to  rail  at  Homer  and  excuse  Disney, 
who  had  a  devoted  following  among  the  young  men  of  his 
own  age  and  calibre.  His  manner  was  more  fortunate 
than  Homer's,  though  his  intentions  were  far  from  being 
so  generous. 

Certain  mental  preoccupations  had  kept  Homer  some- 
what apart  from  the  men  of  his  own  age  in  the  district — 


i 


d 
•r 
n 


TtfE   VNTEMPEkEty  WIND 


201 


first,  his  ambitious  dreams  of  a  course  at  the  commercial 
college,  which  led  him  to  try  to  keep  up  his  studies  during 
the  long  summers  when  he  was  kept  out  of  school  to  work ; 
then  came  his  absence  in  the  city,  when  all  his  knowledge 
of  the  village  filtered  from  the  unready  pen  of  his  mother. 

Upon  his  return  to  the  farm  his  eyes  were  yet  blinded 
by  the  glamour  of  lier  hair,  so  that  he  found  it  sw^oter  to 
lie  upon  the  grass,  with  his  hands  beneath  his  head,  gazing 
up  at  the  skies  and  thinking  of  her,  than  to  join  in  any  of 
the  young  people's  enjoyments.  He  saw  her  eyes  in  every 
star,  her  hair  in  every  moonbeam,  her  form  in  every  grace- 
ful cloud.  He  felt  her  breath  in  every  zephyr,  he  heard 
her  voice  in  the  rippling  of  the  leaves,  her  laugh  in  the 
babble  of  the  brook  or  the  lapping  of  the  lake. 

Enchanted  thus  with  his  own  imaginings,  he  made  no 
effort  to  grasp  the  swiftly  slipping  cable  of  sympathy  with 
his  fellows.  When  his  visions  were  dispelled  and  dese- 
crated by  her  infidelity,  well — he  had  made  one  or  two 
futile  snatches  at  the  vanishing  strand  that  had  bound  his 
heart  and  interests  to  those  of  his  old  school  friends.  But 
either  it  sped  too  fast  from  him,  or  he  strove  to  grasp  it 
too  rudely,  for  he  withdrew  his  hands  from  the  task  and 
found  himself  loath  to  make  an  effort  in  that  direction 
again.  This  piteous  outreaching  for  sympathy  that  is 
withdrawn  sears  the  soul  deeply,  even  as  sliding  ropes 
sear  the  hands;  and  yet  we  must  not  shrink  from  the  life- 
line that  is  to  save  us  from  the  flames.  We  must  endure 
the  hurt  to  escape  the  greater  peril.  And  it  is  better  to 
live,  even  with  torn  and  bleeding  palms,  than  to  shrivel 
in  agonizing  flames  or  suffocate  in  smothering  smoke. 

Withdrawn  from  temptation.  Homer  did  not  go  forth  to 
seek  it,  for  he  was  nauseated  of  all  desire.  Thus  there 
was  no  danger  of  his  soul  consuming  in  the  evil  fire  of  his 
own  passions.     But  how  nearly  he  had  succumbed  to  the 


XI 


ir 


ioi 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


miasmatic  exhalation  that  rose  from  the  Slough  of 
Despond  into  which  his  faculties  had  sunk!  Now,  indeed, 
he  was  winning  his  way  out. 

"Men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higlier  things.  ** 

But  it  is  a  painful  progress,  for  each  stone  must  be  won 
from  the  strong  edifice  erected  by  ourselves  to  bar  our 
way,  of  which  each  block  is  a  pt.Jsion,  a  sin  or  a  folly, 
camented  together  by  selfishness  and  self-indulgence,  based 
upon  self-pity,  garrisoned  by  prideful  spirits  that  mock 
at  our  efforts.  Driven  from  the  ramparts,  they  throng 
about  our  feet  to  jostle  us  from  our  hard-won  stepping- 
stones. 

The  Sir  Galahads  of  life  are  much  to  be  admired,  and 
yet  shall  we  not  crown  those  also,  who,  having  fallen, 
have  again  found  firm  footing — those  strong  souls,  over- 
come omce,  tliut  have  struggled  through  all  this  and  at  last 
sprung  to  shore?  Let  us  hope,  at  least,  that  they  find 
those  long-sought  shores  flowerful  and  pleasant. 

Alas!  Homer  AVilson  looked  but  upon  a  barren  pros- 
pect, waste  and  drear,  disappointing  as  th6  alkali  lakes  that 
mock  the  wanderer  dying  of  thirst  in  the  desert.  There- 
fore it  was  not  much  wonder  that  ho  grew  sad-faced  and 
silent. 

Had  the  woman  he  loved  been  happy,  his  life  would  not 
have  been  whoUv  desolate,  for  his  love  was  of  that  unselfish 
type  that  desires  rather  the  happiness  of  its  beloved  than 
its  own  gratification.  But  from  Myron's  desolate  heart- 
fires  there  could  come  no  joyful  radiance.  The  only  light 
her  life  diffused  across  his  path  was  a  pale  glimmer  of  dy- 
ing hope,  that  illumined  the  sorrows  of  their  separate  ways. 
Myron  was  indeed  relieved  from  thp  pressure  of  actual 
want,  for  Clem  Humphries  and  Ann  Lemon  were  domi- 


. 


.1 


THE    VMTEMPEkED   W'IKD 


203 


. 


1 


: 


ciled  with  her;  but  of  comfort  or  peace  of  heart  she  had 
none. 

Neither  Clem  nor  Ann  had  ever  been  compelled  before 
to  seek  township  aid,  and,  with  the  perversity  of  human 
nature,  they  agreed  in  associating  Myron  with  their  down- 
fall, and  persisted  in  regarding  her  as  being  in  some  way 
responsible  for  it.  They  both  were  devoted  to  stimu- 
lants— Clem's  choice  being  whiskey,  Ann's  gin.  When  the 
monthly  instalments  of  money  from  the  council  arrived, 
they  both,  with  one  accord,  set  to  work  to  wheedle  some 
of  it  from  Myron,  with  a  view  of  gratifying  their  spirituous 
desires.  In  this,  however,  they  were  entirely  balked. 
Beneath  Myron's  meekness  and  patience  an  iron  will  was 
strengthening. 

Homer  had  said:  "  Don't  give  either  of  them  any  money. 
I'll  give  Clem  tobacco  when  he  needs  it,  but  don't  you 
begin  giving  them  the  money,  or  there'll  be  no  stop  to  it." 

That  was  enough.  No  peisuasion  moved  Myron  after 
that,  either  to  yielding  or  to  anger. 

"  She  be  a  fair  devil  for  obstinateness,"  said  Clem  upon 
one  of  these  occasions. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Ann,  venomously,  "and  who  be  she  to 
lord  it  over  the  likes  of  us?     We're  decent,  if  we  be  poor." 

It  was,  however,  only  upon  these  occasions  that  Clem 
'md  Ann  agreed  at  all.  They  quarrelled  continually, 
taunting  each  other  with  a  fondness  for  liquor,  and  each 
making  mock  of  the  hypocrisy  the  other  displayed  in  go- 
ing to  church,  m.uch  upon  the  principle  of  one  negro  call- 
ing another  a  "  black  nigger." 

The  remarks  they  indulged  in  were,  to  say  the  least, 
personal,  and  each  displayed  a  fiendish  aptitude  for  finding 
out  the  weak  spots  in  the  other's  armor. 

Ann  still  cherished  the  shreds  and  patches  of  youthful 
vanities,  mouldy  remnants  of  adornment  with  which  she 


^04 


TH^   UNTEMPEJ^ED  WIND 


disfigured  herself  on  high  days  and  holidays.  She  had  a 
little  house  in  the  village,  and  a  lot  with  some  plum  trees 
upon  it.  In  summer  she  made  shift  to  live  very  comforta- 
bly, what  with  the  plums,  and  her  chickens,  and  odd  days' 
work.  Indeed,  she  might  easily  have  saved  sufficient  to 
keep  her  during  the  winter,  but  Ann  was  not  of  those  who 
"go  to  the  ant,"  and,  after  due  consideration  of  her  ways, 
become  wise. 

Iler  habit  was,  when  she  had  a  few  dollars  by  her,  to 
adorn  herself  with  her  best,  go  to  town  in  the  mail-wagon, 
get  as  much  gin  as  she  could  for  the  money,  and  then  give 
herself  over  to  the  enjoyment  of  her  purchase.  Upon  these 
days  it  was  no  small  excitement  for  the  Jamestown  children 
to  watch  the  going  and  returning  of  Mr.  Warner  and  his 
mail-wagon. 

Long  before  mail-time  Ann  might  be  seen  arranging  her 
finery.  She  wore  a  black  merino  skirt,  draggled  into  a  tat- 
teied  fringe  at  the  bottom,  and  stained  here  and  there  by 
the  drops  that  fell  more  swiftly  as  Ann's  hand  grew  less 
steady.  By  some  chance,  she  had  once  bought  some 
bright  blue  ribbon  from  a  peddler.  She  put  two  rows 
of  this  round  her  black  skirt.  Unfortunately  the  ribbon 
proved  too  short  for  the  two  rows,  so  that  in  the  second 
one  there  was  a  hiatus  of  some  twelve  inches  between  the 
ends  of  the  ribbon.  This  to  some  people  might  have  been 
a  somewhat  insurmountable  difficulty,  but  not  to  Ann. 
Catching  her  skirt  just  at  that  point  where  the  ribbon 
failed  to  connect,  she  raised  it  gracefully  with  one  hand, 
displaying  the  edge  of  a  red  flannel  petticoat  and  a  goodly 
length  of  robust  limb.  It  is  not  recorded  that  she  was 
ever  seen  so  drunk  as  to  forget  herself  sufficiently  to  loose 
her  hold  of  the  skirt,  although  upon  several  occasions  she  was 
carried  helpless  into  her  house,  laid  upon  her  bed,  and 
left,  as  the  good  Samaritans  of  Jamestown  expra^ved  it,  to 


.: 


f 


t 


THE    UNTEMPRRF.n   WIND 


205 


f 


"sober  up  and  be  ashamed  of  herself."  Tier  bodice  was 
only  an  ordinary  calico  one,  but  she  covered  its  deticion- 
cies  by  a  black  cashmere  tippet  of  antiquated  shape  and 
ample  size.  It  had  a  tassel  between  the  shoulders,  and 
certain  lonely  sparkles  here  and  there  showed  that  in  the 
days  of  its  youth  and  beauty  it  had  been  be-bugled.  At 
the  neck  of  this  she  pinned  a  knot  of  faded  magenta 
ribbon,  fastening  it  with  a  shell  pin. 

Hut  the  crowning  glory  of  Ann's  holiday  toilet  was  her 
"front."  This  "front"  was  the  only  bit  of  false  hair  iu 
Jamestown,  and  was  regarded  as  an  unholy  thing,  a  direct 
manifestation  of  "the  Devil  and  his  works."  Mrs.  Deans 
always  declared  that  Mrs.  Wilson  had  "  as  good  as  owned  up" 
that  she  would  like  a  similar  front;  and  indeed  Mrs.  Wil- 
son, good  woman,  had  been  moved  almost  to  defiance  of 
public  opinion  by  the  evil  fascinations  of  that  sinful  scrap 
of  tousled  hair.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Ann's  "  front"  was 
somewhat  the  worse  for  wear;  the  parting  was  a  parting 
indeed,  and  several  curls  being  gone  at  one  side,  there  was 
a  bare  spot,  where  the  black-net  foundation  showed.  But 
Ann's  bleared  eyes  looked  out  right  jauntily  from  beneath 
this  lopsided  coiffure. 

Perched  upon  her  head  was  a  bonnet.  Originally  cov- 
ered with  red  silk,  it  had  grown  glossy  and  dark  from  much 
wear.  Upon  one  side  of  it  was  stuck  grotesquely  a  shape- 
less knot  of  black  crape — limp,  rusty,  soiled  by  mud  and 
weather,  yet  a  symbol  still  of  the  loss  of  husband  and 
child,  and  of  a  deeper  loss  than  this — the  loss  of  hope,  the 
loss  of  self-respect,  the  loss  of  self-control,  and  the  triumph 
of  an  evil  appetite. 

For  long  ago  Ann  had  had  a  husband  and  a  bonny 
daughter,  and  she  herself  was  a  big,  buxom  woman,  fresh- 
colored  and  wholesome.  But  her  husband  died,  and  the 
daughter  w^  carried  hpme  d^ad  to  her  one  day,  with  thc) 


2o6 


T//E    UN  TEMPER  ED   WIND 


water  that  had  drowned  her  dripping  from  her  long  hair 
and  leaving  a  dotted  line  upon  the  flooi  as  it  ran  from  the 
liand  that  hung  over  the  edge  of  the  rude  bier. 

Ann  never  "picked  up"  after  that.  Despite  the  admoni- 
tions of  her  Christian  neighbors  and  their  warnings 
against  sinful  repining,  she  yet  dwelt  ever  upon  her  loss, 
seeking  oblivion  when  she  could  in  drink.  Well,  she  was 
wrong,  of  course,  but  "  the  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitter- 
ness," and  in  the  empty  niches  of  her  heart  there  perhaps 
lurked  the  shadow  of  an  excuse  for  her. 

In  a  certain  old  neckerchief,  mottled  with  gay  colors  and 
bordered  with  purple,  were  tied  a  few  tawdry  relics,  a 
string  of  black  wooden  beads,  a  knot  of  discolored  blue 
ribbon  that  had  clung  to  a  tress  of  the  drowned  girl's  hair, 
a  dark  pipe  with  the  tobacco  still  in  it,  a  waistcoat  barred 
with  bright  stripes  of  yellow,  a  heavy  plated  watchguard — 
these  were  all  that  remained  to  Ann  of  the  joy  of  life,  and 
yet  upon  them  fell  as  bitter  tears  as  ever  dimmed  a  dia- 
mond-set portrait  or  a  pearl-clasped  lock  of  hair. 

This  woman,  for  whose  coming  husband  and  child  had 
once  watched,  was  now  an  amusing  spectacle  for  James- 
town boys.  As  Mr.  Warner  drove  along  the  street  Ann 
would  go  out  and  await  his  coming  in  all  the  dignity  of 
conscious  grandeur.  She  never  started  for  town  until  she 
had  enough  to  pay  for  her  ride  there  and  back,  besides 
the  money  for  her  gin,  for,.as  she  often  said,  she  wasn't 
much  of  a  hand  at  walking. 

Before  getting  into  the  mail-wagon,  which  was  simply 
an  ordinary  two-seated  light  wagon,  with  a  flat  canopy 
upheld  at  the  corners  by  ipon  rods,  she  paid  Mr.  Warner 
fifty  cents,  which  was  the  fare  to  town  and  back.  Then 
she  mounted  to  the  back  seat,  where  she  sat  enthroned,  her 
feet  upon  the  canvas  mailbag. 

She  ergoyed  the  drive  thoroughly,  nodding  with  much 


THE    UNTKA/PEKED   ll'/XD 


207 


• 


affability  to  every  one  they  met,  irrespective  of  wlictlier  alie 
knew  them  or  not,  and  saying,  "Poor  crittur!  Who  bo  he, 
I  wonder.  He  don't  know  me,"  when  any  one  failed 
to  return  her  salute. 

At  the  door  of  the  Post-Office  Ann  got  out,  having  paid 
no  heed  to  the  gingerly  hints  Mr.  Warner  had  given  her 
about  getting  out  when  they  came  to  the  town  limits. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  stretch  a  bit,  Mrs.  Lemon,  before 
we  get  into  town?"  he  would  say,  tentatively. 

"No,  I  ain't  a  mite  stiffened  up  to-day,"  she  would 
reply. 

"Because  I'll  stop  and  let  you  out  if  you'd  rather," 
Mr.  Warner  continued. 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't  put  you  to  no  trouble,"  Ann  demurred, 
politely. 

"It  wouldn't  be  no  trouble,"  he  would  feebly  protest. 

But  Ann  only  said :  "  I'm  all  right,  Mr.  Warner.  No 
rheumatics  in  my  knees,  thank  Providence  and  red 
flannels!  I  can  sit,  walk,  or  ride  with  the  best  of  them 
yet."  Then,  animated  by  sudden  concern  for  him:  "  But 
look  here,  if  you're  crippled  up,  jest  get  out  and  walk 
alongside  and  I'll  drive.  Do  now,  just  reach  the  reins 
acrost  here.     I  can  drive  as  straight  as  a  string." 

But  this  ordering  of  affairs  was  still  less  to  his  liking; 
so,  resigning  himself  to  the  inevitable  and  comforting  him- 
self with  the  thought  of  the  fifty  cents,  he  drove  on  to  the 
Post-Office. 

Here  Ann  alighted,  and  then  began  making  inquiries  as 
to  the  precise  time  of  leaving,  which  side  of  the  street  he 
would  be  on,  whether  any  one  else  was  going,  besides  many 
other  details  that  suggested  themselves  to  her  as  legitimate 
excuses  for  prolonging  the  conversation,  during  which  she 
surveyed  Warner  haughtily.  Finally  she  sailed  off,  with 
9,  last  imperative  injunction  "  to  be  punkshuL" 


2o8 


THE    UX  TEMrERED   IVIArD 


When  kIio  ii'tnnKMl,  slio  was  nsnally  pretty  far  gone. 
SI»o  rolled  in  her  walk,  and  fiery  glan(;ca  shot  from  her 
eyes.  The  tippet  was  usually  screwed  around,  so  that  the 
tassel  depended  like  an  epaulet  upon  one  shoulder,  and  the 
insigetita  ribbon  did  duty  upon  the  other.  Her  Iwnnet 
had  a  trick,  that  amounted  to  a  habit,  of  cocking  itself 
hilariously  over  one  ear,  and  the  " front"  usually  pointed 
straight  at  the  other. 

Mr.  Warner  took  care  always  to  be  ready  to  leave  wlien 
she  came.  lie  had  a  painful  recollection  of  a  day  when 
ho  loitered  about  the  Post-Oftico  longer  than  usual,  and 
came  out  at  length,  mailbag  over  his  shoulders,  to  find 
Aim  the  centre  of  an  admiring  group  that  applauded  her 
whilst  she  gave  a  full,  particular  (and,  be  it  whispered, 
true)  account  of  the  Warner  family  history. 

In  every  little  village  there  are  certain  stock  stories 
that  are  told  about  certain  families.  If  it  be  a  scandal- 
monging  little  hole,  the  stories  usually  have  a  tang  to 
them. 

The  tales  about  the  Warner  family  were  particularly 
spicy  ones,  the  men  being  notoriously  cruel  to  their  horses 
and  "  close-fisted"  in  their  dealings.  Some  of  the  women 
were  not  all  they  ought  to  be,  and  the  whole  family  con- 
nection so  penurious  as  to  be  but  one  remove  from  misers. 

An  was  giving  a  veritable  epic  illustrative  of  each  of 
these  family  failings,  and  had  just  got  to  the  point  bearing 
upon  their  cruelty  to  their  horses. 

"  The  bones  of  the  horses  the  Warners  killed  stopped  up 
the  drains  in  Jamestown."  Turning,  she  whipped  up  the  bit 
of  felt  saddle-cloth  under  the  harness  of  the  mail-wagon 
horse,  and  showed  the  galled  patch  on  its  back ;  then  she 
drew  attention  to  the  raw  places  on  the  shoulders  that 
Warner  had  smeared  with  black  wagon-grease,  to  render 
th^m  less  poticeable.      \Varner  wt^  lurious,  t^nd    wpwW 


J 


J 


J 


THE    UNTEMrEKEl)   H'/XD 


209 


right  gladly  huvo  left  her  thero,  but  \\q  did  not  know  how 
fur  her  tongue  had  taken  her  or  how  far  it  could  go,  and 
he  felt  it  safer  to  insist  upon  her  getting  into  the  wagon. 

Then  her  mood  changed.  She  insisted  he  was  her  best 
and  only  friend,  embraced  him  from  behind  with  one 
arm  round  his  neck  until  she  nearly  strangled  him,  whilst 
she  strove  to  give  him  a  drink  from  her  black  bottle  with 
the  other;  wept  because  she  could  not  climb  over  into  the 
front  seat  beside  him,  and  finally  si' 1 -vied  into  nuiudlin 
tears  of  repentance  and  retrospect,  mingled  with  i)iou8 
ejaculations  of  thanks  for  the  comfort  she  had  that  day 
received. 

Warned  by  this  experience,  Warner  was  always  ready, 
waiting  for  her  when  she  appeared,  and  had  acquired  some 
skill  in  persuading  her  to  mount  inw  the  wagon  immedi- 
ately upon  her  arrival.  Her  untimely  demonstrations  of 
affection,  however,  were  never  to  be  guarded  against  and 
his  llesh  crept  upon  his  bones  until  he  was  clear  of  the 
town  and  out  into  the  country.  It  was  decidedly  a  trial 
to  have  Ann  for  a  passenger,  only  there  was  one  saving 
mercy  about  it — afterward  Warner  had  fifty  cents  more. 
To  the  Warner  mind  that  meant  a  great  deal. 

It  was  a  popular  saying  in  Jamestown  that  *'  a  Warner 
would  take  a  kicking  for  a  quarter  any  day." 

Without  these  occasional  exhilarations  Ann  grew  morose 
and  vindictive.  She  glowered  at  My  as  he  played  about 
the  floor,  gave  Myron  a  myriad  pin-pointed  stings  anent 
his  existence,  saying,  with  pious  unction,  that  whatever 
little  she  had  to  be  thankful  for,  she  never  should  cease 
being  grateful  that  she  was  decent,  and  relieved  the 
tension  upon  her  feelings  by  an  active  and  aggressive 
warfare  against  Clem. 

Clem  returned  her  complimentary  attentions  in  kind, 
and  exhausted  his  ingenuity  in  planning  to  torment  Ann, 
14 


p 


2IO 


T//£    UNTEMTERED  WIND 


There  were  several  battles  royal  between  the  two  that 
marked  the  history  of  their  warfare,  as  great  victories  star 
a  campaign.  There  was  the  evening,  when  they  all  sat 
round  the  little  table  drawn  up  close  to  the  fire,  and  Clem, 
nodding  his  head  with  drowsy  satisfaction,  took  the  first ' 
morsel  of  a  plug  of  chewing  tobacco  Homer  had  given 
him.  Clem  half-closed  his  eyes  and  gave  himself  up  to 
its  enjoyment.  Myron  rose  softly,  to  carry  the  sleeping 
baby  to  bed.  Ann's  eyes  wandered  malignantly  from 
Clem's  contented  countenance  to  the  plug  of  tobacco  (so 
near  her  hand),  and  from  thence  all  round  the  room.  She 
looked  longingly  at  the  fire,  but  shook  her  head ;  discovery 
would  be  too  prompt.  Her  eyes  fell  upon  a  tub  of  water, 
set  close  to  the  fire  to  prevent  its  freezing  against  the 
morrow.  Her  face  lighted — an  evil  inspiration  had  come 
to  her. 

Slowly — slowly — she  put  forth  her  hand.  Clem's  eyelids 
wavered — she  withdrew  it  swiftly — there  was  a  pause.  ' 
Again  her  itching  fingers  approached  the  square  of  tobacco 
— again  were  withdrawn  before  a  flicker  of  those  eyes. 
Another  breath — then  carefully,  stealthily,  she  grabbed  the 
tobacco,  withdrew  her  hand,  and,  bending  far  over,  slid  her 
prize  into  the  tub  of  water. 

Then,  to  all  appearance,  sleep  suddenly  overpowered  her. 
Her  head  began  to  nod,  her  eyes  to  close,  she  breathed 
heavily,  and  her  relaxed  hand  fell  linply  by  her  side. 

Clem  rose  presently  to  build  a  new  fire,  and,  being  ex- 
travagantly inclined  because  of  his  plentitude  of  tobacco, 
ejected  his  "  chew"  into  the  ashes,  anr",  after  putting  on  the 
wood,  returned  to  his  seat  and  put  out  his  hand  for  his 
tobacco. 

Myron  entered  at  that  moment  from  the  bedroom.  The 
fire  crackled  as  it  caught  the  new  fuel ;  old  Ann  sat  like  a 
nodding  mandarin,  oblivious  (outw^rdl^)  of  everything. 


ilJI— i«>W 


X- 

o, 
le 
lis 

he 
a 


rilE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


211 


v 


.p 


Clem's  astonishment  at  its  disappearance  was  great. 
Nevertheless  he  did  not  grow  wrathful  until  he  had  turned 
out  his  many  pockets  and  bestrewn  the  table  with  their 
varied  contents.  lie  banged  each  article  viciously  upon 
the  table,  but  Ann  still  slept.  She  was  somewhat  over- 
doing her  role,  and  Clem's  smouldering  wrath  flamed  up 
into  active  indignation  as  she  sat  there  calm  amidst  the 
storm. 

"  Get  up!"  he  said.  "  Get  up,  you  stovepipe,  and  let  me 
see  if  it  ain't  under  your  chair?  You  know  something 
about  it,  I'll  swear  you  do!  If  'twas  a  glass  of  gin,  I'll 
warrant  you'd  scent  it  out!  Get  up,  will  you?"  Saying 
this,  he  jerked  her  chair  aside  by  the  back,  so  that  Ann, 
who  was  feigning  all  the  languor  of  one  suddenly  aroused 
from  deep  sleep,  slid  oil  the  chair  to  the  floor.  She  im- 
proved the  occasion,  however,  by  knocking  the  chair  over 
on  Clem's  corns  as  she  rose.  Clem  gave  a  frightful  oath, 
and  Ann  stood  erect,  with  a  jeering  laugh.  Myron,  anxious 
to  preserve  peace,  joined  Clem  in  his  hunt,  whilst  Ann 
stood  by. 

"Call  me  stovepipe,  will  you?"  she  asked.  "Stove- 
pipe indeed,  and  me  the  best  figger  of  a  woman  in  the 
village  in  my  time!  Stovepipe!  With  my  waist,  too! 
Stovepipe  indeed!"  An  indignant  snort  rounded  off  her 
sentence. 

The  little  kitchen  was  so  bare  that  any  search  was  either 
easy  or  hopeless.  Myron  and  Clem  searched  and  searched, 
going  over  and  over  the  same  ground,  as  the  wisest  of  us 
do  when  we  look  for  something  lost — for  pleasure  in  old 
pain,  for  joy  in  bygone  voices,  for  hope  in  withered  joys. 

Ann  waxed  more  and  more  derisive. 

"  If  'twas  a  spoonful  of  whiskey,  now,"  she  began,  plagiar- 
izing and  paraphrasing  his  own  words  to  her;  "if  'twas  a 
spoonful  of  whiskey  now,  I'll  go  bail  you'd  nose  it  out, 


212 


THE    UNTEMPEKED  WIND 


!        I 


You'd  ha'  run  ag'in  it  long  ago.  You're  better  at  getting 
whiskey  than  at  getting  clean  jugs  to  put  it  in,  though." 

Clem  turned  to  glare  at  her,  and  stubbed  his  toes  against 
the  tub.  He  cast  his  eyes  down,  with  a  curse,  but  his  gaze 
was  held  by  something  which,  even  as  he  looked,  sank  to 
the  bottom,  thoroughly  saturated. 

In  a  moment  he  had  it  out — his  tobacco,  bloated  out  of 
all  semblance  to  its  dark-brown  self.  One  glance  was 
enough.  With  accurate  aim,  he  Hung  it  with  all  his  might 
at  Ann's  triumphant  countenance. 

It  struck  her  across  the  lips,  parted  for  another  gibe. 
She  subsided,  sputtering,  anO  Clem,  gathering  up  his  be- 
longings from  the  table  wii'  ..le  sweep  into  his  hand- 
kerchief, flung  himself  out  of  the  room. 

Myron's  life  was  passed  in  a  continual  jar  and  fret 
because  of  these  quarrels.  She  strove  to  interpose  herself 
as  much  as  possible  between  them,  for  Ann's  malice  grew 
more  and  more  venomous,  and  Clem's  dislike  threatened 
to  bi'cak  bounds,  and  from  speech  become  blows.  Ann  was 
persistent  in  her  demands  for  "  somethin'  warmin',"  and  do 
what  she  could  Myron  could  not  satisfy  them. 

But  their  bitter  words  did  not  sting  as  her  grand- 
mother's had  done.  Love  has  a  sl'if  j)otency  in  pain 
and  pleasure.  ^ 

There  is  poison  upon,  the  tongue  oi  ,i  friend  Avhen  it 
turns  against  us.  No  dart  pricks  so  deep  as  one  launched 
by  a  hand  we  love^  Gall  and  wormwood  are  mingled  in 
the  draught  when  the  bitter  cup  is  pressed  to  our  lips  by 
the  hand  that  has  tended  us  in  childhood.  No  thorns  are 
so-  sharp  set  to  pierce  our  feet  as  those  implanted  in  our 
path  by  one  we  love. 

Some  years  ago  there  was  a  marvellous  tale  told  of  a 
woman  in  the  mountains  of  Africa,  wondrous    old  and 

beautiful,  and  exceeding  wise,    We  are  told  that  by  the 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


213 


mg 
inst 

i  to 


it  of 

was 

light 

gibe. 
8  be- 
iiaud- 

[  fret 
lerself 
grew 
,teiied 
in  was 
ind  do 

•and- 
pain 

Iheii  it 
inched 
led  in 
lips  by 
rns  are 
lin  our 


of  a 
id  and 
by  thQ 


toiieli  of  lier  finger-tip  8Ue  blanclicd  a  snowy  streak  athwart 
a  girl's  dark  locks.  Later,  witli  anotlier  malignant  gesture, 
she  reft  the  girl  of  life,  so  that  she  fell  dead  in  an  instant. 

Myron  Holder's  soul  was  being  blanched  by  the  pointing 
fingers  of  her  world.  Would  they  stop  there?  Or  would 
the  cruel  allegory  be  completed?  Would  those  merciless 
mockers  not  cease  until,  deprived  of  life  and  hope,  Myron 
Holder  faltered  and  fell  to  what  they  pictured  her?  For 
there  was  every  chance  she  might. 

Her  face  had  gained  a  pale  and — inapplicable  as  the 
word  seems — lofty  beauty.  Her  eyes  held  within  their 
depths  the  secret  of  all  pain,  and  the  storehouses  of  such 
knowledge  are  often  more  beautiful  than  those  that  garner 
gayer  truths.  Her  lips,  softened  by  the  love  of  her  child, 
were  warm  and  red ;  his  kisses  kept  them  so  amid  the  pallor 
of  her  face,  like  a  little  hearth  in  a  waste  of  snow.  So 
small  and  sweet  the  mouth  was,  so  tremulous,  so  shrinking, 
it  seemed  the  pallor  of  cheek  and  chin  encroached  upon  it 
daily.  It  did  not  seem  a  mouth  for  speech:  there  was 
but  space  for  sobs  and  kisses,  and  yet — it  had  had  kisses, 
and  kisses  leave  strange  savors  sometimes,  and  it  had  parted 
in  many  a  sob.  Who,  then,  could  tell  if  the  pressure  of 
those  lips  brought  pain  or  pleasure?  And  what  man  but 
would  dare  all  to  know? 

Behind  her  lids  lay  love,  too,  gleaming  through  the  veil 
of  her  sorrows,  as  the  reflected  sun  shines  from  a  well.  At 
present  it  was  all  for  her  child — later? 

Nowadays,  when  on  every  side  they  talk  so  much  of  the 
force  of  "suggestion,"  it  almost  makes  us  wonder  if  our 
fellows'  lives  are  not  a  reflex  of  our  conception  o{  them — 
if  a  consensus  of  opinion  that  a  person  is  guilty  does  not 
tend  to  make  him  wliat  we  assume  him  to  l)0. 

It  would  seem  tlie  Jamestown  people  did  the  best  they 
could  to  aid  the  devil,  whom  they  professed  to  sacrifice, 


3 


214 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


i 


when,  with  the  pointed  forks  of  malice,  they  thrust  Myron 
Holder  forward  to  his  fires.  Each  time  Homer  Wilson 
came  to  sit  in  the  cottage  his  heart  ached  more  and  more 
for  this  woman.  Against  the  background  of  Ann's  slovenly 
form  and  Clem's  squalid  coarseness  she  shone  like  a  jewel 
in  a  rough  clasp.  Each  time  he  departed  the  wrench  was 
greater,  but  he  could  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  her.  As  for  her,  his  visits  were  the  only  allevia- 
tion of  her  life,  his  visits  and  My.  For  the  child  was 
beginning  to  talk  now,  and  pattered  after  her  every  step. 
She  had  taught  him  a  meaningless  baby  jingle — "  Mama's 
My,"  she  said ;  "  My's  mania,"  answered  My — and  when  he 
got  to  know  it  well,  he  would  chatter  it  out  in  swift  alter- 
nation with  her,  until  the  simple  words,  expressive  of  the 
absolute  inviolate  bond  that  united  them,  pierced  her  soul 
with  a  sense  of  their  isolation,  and  she  caught  him  to  her 
as  of  old  Ilagar  may  have  pressed  Ishmael  to  her  dis- 
honored bosom. 

But  out  of  Homer's  visits  fresh  spite  and  scandal  sprung. 
For  old  Ann,  denied  money  for  gin,  grew  bitter  and  re- 
vengeful, and  took  to  going  from  kitchen  to  kitchen  with 
the  song  of  her  sorrows.  Finding  her  welcome  and  enter- 
tainment proportioned  exactly  to  the  amount  of  news  she 
had  to  tell,  she  did  her  best,  like  a  good  laborer,  to  be 
worthy  of  her  hire. 

Every  incident  of  Myron's  life  was  noted  and  enhanced 
by  Ann's  evil  imaginings — was  bruited  from  lip  to  lip. 
Myron  knew  this.  In  the  old  days,  whatever  bitterness 
had  awaited  her  within  the  walls  of  the  cottage,  they  had  at 
least  shielded  her  from  the  curious  eye  and  whispering  lip 
of  the  village.  They  did  so  no  longer.  Her  last  refuge 
was  taken  from  her.  She  felt  she  lived  in  a  veritable  glass 
house,  pierced  by  day  and  night  by  relentless  eyes.  The 
knowledge  made  her  restless  and  ill  at  ease. 


THE    ILV  TEMPER  ED   WIND 


215 


she 
be 

iced 
lip. 
ncss 
dat 
lip 
[uge 
;la8S 
iThe 


Ann  did  her  best,  as  has  been  said,  to  deserve  the  welcome 
she  received  at  Mrs.  Dean's,  Mrs.  White's,  Mrs.  Warner's, 
and  the  other  houses  slic  went  to.  She  crawled  up  from 
her  warm  couch  to  listen  at  Myron's  door  at  night,  and 
crept  back,  shivering  with  cold,  and  angry  that  Myron  did 
not  justify  the  vileness  of  her  suspicions. 

The  "  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon"  sent  shafts  of 
pale  light  to  illumine  both  the  sleepers  and  the  listener. 
Within  the  chamber  were  the  two  shamed  ones — the  sinful 
mother,  the  child  of  sin.  The  two  faces  close  together, 
both  calm — for  one  heart  was  ignorant  of  the  world  and 
its  cruelty,  and  the  other  for  a  brief  space  oblivious.  Two 
hands  were  hidden,  close  clasped,  beneath  the  coverlet; 
two  lay  palms  up,  so  that  the  moonshine  lit  them  palely — 
the  one  pink-palmed,  unscarred,  unstained;  the  other 
so  worn,  so  hard,  having  lifted  such  heavy  loads  and 
borne  such  bitter  burdens,  having  been  stung  by  flowers 
that  change  to  undying  nettles,  having  so  often  shielded 
shamed  eyes,  having  so  often  pressed  against  a  breaking 
heart,  having  so  often  been  raised  in  fruitless  supplication, 
so  often  wrung  in  despair. 

Without  the  door  the  listener,  tremulous  with  eagerness, 
leant,  holding  her  breath,  and  longing  for  the  confirmation 
of  her  evil  thoughts.  She  caught  only  the  cadence  of  the 
breathing  of  mother  and  child — a  music  sweet  to  the  old 
gods  long  ago,  they  say,  and  sacred  still  to  us,  the  incense 
of  love's  devotion  and  sacrifice  of  suffering. 

And  is  the  oifering  less  sacred  because  ascending  from  an 
altar  differing  in  shape  from  the  law's  design?  In  what 
strange  quality  were  these  commingling  breaths  lacking  that 
they  should  rise  in  vain? 

Love  bestows  upon  many  things  its  own  immortality. 
Why  not  upon  the  air,  that  gives  it  life?  The  air  that  has 
been  breathed  by  the  mutual  lips  of  love  can  never  again 


^ 


i      I 


2l6 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


commingle  with  the  grosser  ether  of  our  earthly  atmosphere. 
It  ascends  afar,  and  perchance  shall  form  the  winey  atmos- 
phere of  that  fabled  Land  of  Compensation,  where,  we 
are  told,  "  the  crooked  shall  be  made  straight." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  All  the  secret  of  the  spring  * 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood.  " 

"  Lovely  spring 
A  brief  sweet  thing, 
Is  swift  on  the  wing.  " 

Queen  Eleanor —  "...  Some 

Flowers,  they  say,  if  one  pluck  deep  enough. 
Bleed  as  you  gather.  " 

Bouchard— "  That  means  love,  I  think. 
You  gather  it,  and  there's  the  blood  at  root.  " 

Winter  was  softening  to  spring.  It  was  the  dismal 
transition  period,  when  half -frozen  mud  and  icy  slush  ta^;e 
the  place  of  snow.  The  deep  drifts  of  the  winter  were 
gone;  only  in  the  fence-corners  there  yet  remained 
darkened  icy  ridges,  showing  their  outline. 

The  fields  were  bare,  but  the  discolored  snow  still  lay  in 
patches  on  the  roads,  where  it  had  been  beaten  hard.  The 
world  never  looks  so  desolate  and  disreputable  as  at  this 
time,  when  the  earth,  looking  up  inquiringly  to  a  comfort- 
less sun,  pleads — or  so  it  would  seem — for  heat,  that  its 
nakedness  may  be  clothed  with  verdure. 

The  tree-tops  in  the  woodlands  clashed  together,  and  the 
blows  seemed  to  start  the  sap  within  them,  for  their  buds 
began  to  swell,  and  all  along  their  branches  the  satiny 
receptacles,  wherein  were  coiled  the  lirst  leaves,  glistened. 


ta^ie 


were 
lained 

|lay  in 

The 
It  this 
ifort- 
lat  its 

id  the 
buds 
Isatiny 
Itened. 


THE  UN  TEMP  EKED  WIND 


ai7 


The  sugar  maples  sparkled  uigiit  and  morning  with  tiny 
icicles,  where  the  sweet  sap  tljat  oozed  out  at  noon  froze 
in  the  colder  breath  of  evening.  Every  schoolboy  in 
Jamestown  had  swollen  lips  from  eating  these  icicles — 
dainty  morsels  they  were,  too,  their  flavor  the  very  essence 
of  sweetness. 

All  the  trees  in  the  forest  seemed  to  stand  at  "  atten- 
tion," awaiting  the  command  of  the  sun  to  leap  to  life. 
Only  the  low-growing  witch-hazel,  that  uncanny  tree,  asso- 
ciated with  ilie  Black  Art  from  time  immemorial,  had 
taken  upon  itself  to  bedeck  its  limbs  with  fuzzy  little  yel- 
low and  brown  tufts  of  bloom. 

But  none  of  the  other  trees  followed  its  example.  They 
waited  the  heat  of  the  sun.  From  all  accounts,  the  root 
of  the  witch-hazel  seeks  less  celestial  fires  to  draw  its  life 
from.  At  any  rate,  this  overwise  tree  knows  all  subterra- 
nean secrets,  all  the  wonders  of  the  water,  all  the  wind's 
weird  whisperings.  Passed  along  the  surface  of  the  earth, 
does  it  not  divine  where,  far  beneath,  the  hidden  springs 
gush  forth?  Launched  uj^on  the  water,  does  it  not  stop 
and  tremble  where  the  drowned  one  lies?  Before  the 
coming  of  the  storm,  do  its  leaves  not  dance,  and  nod,  and 
rustle,  though  moved  by  no  perceptible  influence  save  the 
intoxication  of  their  own  evil  sap?  Besides,  what  magi- 
cal mysteries,  what  eerie  orgies,  does  it  not  share  witli 
hairs  from  black  cats'  tails,  and  moss  from  gravestoiics, 
and  teeth  of  dead  people?  Ugh!  It  is  no  wonder  that  its 
deep,  deep  roots  know  where  to  seek  for  warmth. 

The  moss  upon  the  rocks  that  faced  the  lake  front  was 
vividly  green.  Last  year's  dead  leaves  had  rotted  beneath 
the  snows,  and  the  empty  seed-vessels  of  the  tall  weeds 
served  as  bells  for  the  Jesting  wind. 

Whatever  suggestions  of  bygone  beauty,  whatever  antici- 
pations of  unborn  flowers  lurked  in  the  woods,  the  village 


ai8 


THE    UN7EMPERED   WIND 


at  tliis  time  looked  depressingly  squalid.  Relying  upon 
the  snow's  charity  in  covering  a  multitude  of  sins,  the 
untidy  housekeepers  had  imposed  upon  it.  Now  they 
were  shamed.  The  malting  snow  left  exposed  all  the  debris 
of  the  winter.  Heaps  of  tea-leaves  cast  forth  by  careless 
hands  beside  the  doors,  ashes  flung  out  hastily,  bones, 
broken  crockery,  and  the  heads  of  decapitated  chickens 
bestrewed  the  streets. 

Outwardly,  at  least,  Jamestown  had  been  quite  a  decent 
village  before  the  snow  melted;  now,  it  showed  like  a 
hypocrite  from  whom  the  robe  has  been  torn  away. 

With  the  first  break  in  the  winter  weather,  the  men 
began  to  "  go  over"  the  fences,  rebuilding  those  the  snow 
had  broken,  replacing  the  rails  and  boards  that  the  wind 
had  torn  off,  and  sinking  new  posts  where  the  frosts  had 
heaved  the  old  ones  out  of  the  earth. 

Clem  Humphries  had  long  been  impatient  to  leave 
Myron's  and  get  out  of  the  reach  of  Ann's  irritating 
tongue,  and  his  eager  search  for  work  got  the  reward 
of  being  hired  by  Mr.  White  to  bore  post-holes. 

He  stuck  to  his  task  until  he  earned  a  few  dollars ;  then 
his  long-saved  thirst  drove  him  to  town.  The  money 
went  for  the  old  purpose,  and  Clem  got  gloriously  drunk. 
A  sudden  brief  but  biting  spring  frost  setting  in,  he 
was  found  next  morning  in  Mr.  White's  barnyard,  lying 
by  the  strawstack,  his  fingers  clasping  rigidly  an  empty 
bottle,  his  long  boots  frozen  to  his  feet. 

They  carried  him  in  beside  the  kitchen  stove,  cut  off  his 
boots,  and  by  noon  old  Clem  was  as  sprightly  as  ever ;  only 
he  cursed  sulphurously  when  he  saw  the  wreck  they  had 
made  of  his  foot-gear.  This  was  particularly  annoying  to 
him,  because  he  knew  that  had  he  "  only  had  sense  enough, 
he  could  have  got  a  good  quari:  more  of  rye  for  them  very 
boots  they  cut  up,  as  if  they  weren't  worth  a  cent. " 


i  I 
I  I 


-^^^ 


THE    UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


219 


Many  men  might  have  suffered  from  this  experience, 
but  alcohol  has  great  preservative  qualities  and  old  Clem's 
system  was  saturated  with  it. 

Clem  being  now  "  off  the  township"  and  exposed  to  all 
the  inclemencies  of  Fortune's  variable  winds,  it  behooved 
him  to  supply  himself  with  a  new  suit  of  religion,  as  the 
snake  takes  to  himself  a  new  skin.  This  he  did.  He 
spoke  piously  of  his  failings,  his  experiences,  his  backslid- 
ings  and  beliefs,  bo  that  Mrs.  White  held  him  in  godly 
commiseration,  as  one  sore  beset  by  the  enemy. 

So  Clem  fed  and  fattened,  whined  diligently,  and 
worked  as  little  as  he  could  help,  and  laughed  in  his  sleeve 
at  them  all. 

Mrs.  Deans  said  to  Homer  Wilson,  with  sneering  em- 
phasis : 

"If  you  should  see  that  Myron  Holder,  Homer,  I  wish 
you'd  tell  her  I  want  to  speak  to  her." 

"Very  well,"  said  Homer,  unmoved. 

"Will  you  be  like,    to  see  her?"  pursued  Mrs.  Deans. 

"Yes,"  said  Homer,  in  a  matter-of-course  tone.  "Oh, 
yes,  of  course  I'll  see  her." 

"Still,  after  all,"  Mrs.  Deans  hesitated  with  a  fine  show 
of  prayerful  reflection,  "  maybe  I  hadn't  ought  to  ask  you 
to  call  there?  There's  no  use  making  things  worse  than 
they  are,  and  I'd  never  forgive  myself  if  I  thought  I  put 
you  in  the  way  of  wrongdoing." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Homer,  calmly.  "Is  there 
anything  wrong  about  your  message?" 

"Not  about  my  message,"  answered  Mrs.  Deans;  "but, 
after  all  that's  come  and  gone,  I  dare  say  you  would  not 
like  to  go  to  the  Holder  place.  Well,  I  don't  know  as 
I  blame  you.  It's  terrible  discouragin'  to  be  mixed  up 
with  such  a  story;  but  there,  never  mind,  I  can  send 
Haley.     No  one  would  think  anything  of  his  going." 


»--r; 


'■-"^ 


320 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


"  Make  your  mind  easy,  Mrs.  Deans,"  said  ITomcr,  con- 
tuniptuously.  "Ann  lionion,  I  am  sure,  lias  let  you  know 
thsit  I  am  in  the  habit  of  going  to  Myron's  as  often  as 
slie'll  let  me.  I'll  bo  very  glad  of  your  message  as  an 
excuse  to  go  again." 

With  this  Homer  departed,  leaving  Mrs.  Deans  as 
nearly  dumbstruck  fis  it  was  possible  for  her  to  be. 

That  afternoon  Myron  stood  knocking  at  Mrs.  Deans' 
kitchen-door,  holding  My  by  the  hand,  whilst  he  strug- 
gled to  get  away  to  the  collie  dog  which  lay  on  the  porch, 
its  front  paws  crossed  in  an  attitude  of  dignified  leisure. 

From  the  poultry-yard  came  the  mingled  babble  of  the 
fowls'  cries.  A  thin  blue  banner  of  smoke  uncoiled  in  a 
long  spiral  from  behind  the  house.  It  diffused  an  aroma 
of  herbs  and  withered  grass:  the  rakings  of  the  garden 
were  being  burned.  Gamaliel  and  the  hired  men  were 
opening  a  ditch  in  the  field  next  the  house.  Their  coarse 
voices  and  coarser  laughing  c.ime  clearly  through  the 
spring  air.  A  sparrow  ilew  down  and,  laden  with  a  long 
straw,  flew  up  again  to  the  woodshed  eaves,  where  its  mate 
proceeded  to  help  it  to  weave  the  straw  into  the  walls  of 
their  nest.  The  old  cat,  thinner  now  than  in  the  winter, 
looked  up  at  their  toiling  malignantly.  Every  now  and 
then  the  eye  was  conscious  of  a  dark  speck  above  the  line 
of  direct  vision,  as  the  swallows  soared  in  long  sweeps  over 
the  building. 

The  sky  was  bright,  but  not  very  warm ;  and  when  one 
of  the  many  floating  clouds  interposed  a  veil  betwixt  its 
rays  and  the  earth,  there  came  a  quick  sense  of  chill.  The 
men's  voices  grew  higher  and  more  confused.  Then, 
clear  above  the  murmur  that  they  made,  came  shrill  whis- 
tles and  shouts  of  "Bob!  Bob!"  The  collie  sprang  up, 
and,  throwing  dignity  to  (he  wind,  wriggled  between  the 
boards  of  the  garden  fence  and  darted  across  the  field,  to 


rilE    UNTEMrERKD   WIND 


221 


/ 


enjoy  presently  a  liiliirious  chase  after  a  pair  of  water-rats 
that  tlie  men  liad  found  in  tlie  stopped  up  drain. 

It  was  a  spring  day — all  delicate  sunshine  and  shinnner- 
ing  shadow,  all  soft  witii  tints  of  niother-o'-pearl,  with 
hints  of  after-heats  and  breaths  of  bygone  bitterness. 
Above  floated  "the  wind-stirred  robe  of  roseate  gray," 
and  beneath  the  earth  lay  murmurous,  sentient,  expectant, 
and  eager,  with  little  streams  finding  their  way  to  the 
lake,  each  seeming  the  bearer  of  sweeter  secrets  than  we 
know. 


1  one 
xt  its 
The 
hen, 
svhis- 
np, 
the 
d,  to 


"O  water,  thou  tluit  waiulercst,  wliisporing, 
Thou  keep'st  th}"^  counsel  to  tlie  hist! 
What  spell  upou  thy  bosom  shouhl  Love  cast, 
His  message  thence  to  wring  V" 

A  spring  day — yet  somewhat  sad,  and  strange  with  the 
uncertainty  of  u-nfulUllcd  dreams.  It  was  but  one  minor 
note  in  Nature's  glad  interlude  between  "winter's  rains 
and  ruins"  and  summer's  languorous  perfections,  fleeting 
to  the  eye,  elusive  to  the  memory,  but  lingering  long  in 
the  heart. 

Myron  knocked  and  waited.  Presently  Liz  opened  the 
door.  She  had  a  knife  in  one  hand,  a  potato  in  the 
other,  and  her  fingers  were  stained  a  deep  brown.  Liz  was 
cutting  seed-potatoes,  and  even  as  slie  walked  back  to  her 
place  by  the  window,  dexterously  sliced  the  potato  she  held 
into  angled  bits,  preserving  in  each  an  eye  for  growth  to 
spring  from.  Mrs.  Deans  came,  and  when  Myron  left  she 
had  arranged  for  another  summer's  toil  under  her  benign 
influence. 

Mrs.  Deans  had  decided  to  raise  poultry  more  extensively 
than  ever  this  year,  and,  berate  Myron  as  she  might,  she 
recognized  fully  how  valuable  her  faithful  services  were. 
Mrs,  Deans  proposed  that  My  should  be  left  with  Ann 


V' 


'«iiii 


HWWMHMMMaaW 


flaa 


THE    UNTEAirERED   WIND 


I 

III 


Lemon  during  the  day,  but  Myron  said  humbly  but  very 
decidedly  that  the  child  must  come  with  her.  Mrs.  Deans 
demurred,  but  read  Myron's  pale  determination  aright,  and 
finally  consented.  It  gave  her  an  excuse,  however,  for 
still  further  reducing  the  meagre  pay  she  had  given  Myron 
the  summer  before. 

Myron  had  been  prepared  for  this,  and  did  not  grumble 
when  Mrs.  Deans  named  the  lower  wage,  whereat  Mrs. 
Deans  was  wroth  with  herself  that  she  had  not  said  still 
loss. 

Ann  Lemon  went  back  to  her  own  house,  and  Myron  once 
more  went  back  and  forth  to  the  village.  The  winter  had 
changed  her.  She  no  longer  shrank  from  before  the  gaze 
of  those  cold  eyes  that  met  hers  daily.  Listead,  she  met 
their  glances  with  firm  lips  and  unmoved  eye,  not  boldly, 
not  appealingly,  but  with  ncceptance  of  rebuke  and 
scorn  that  was  stronger  in  iio  endurance  than  wrath,  with 
a  patience  more  pathetic  than  any  appeal. 

No  smile  ever  moved  her  lips,  no  anger  ever  raised  her 
voice.  If  tears  ever  dimmed  her  eyes  they  were  unseen. 
If  any  ray  of  hope  yet  flickered  within  her  breast,  it  was  well 
hidden ;  its  fires  never  flushed  her  cheeks  nor  troubled  her 
eyes,  and  those  humble  eyes  were  "  deeper  than  the  depth 
of  waters  stilled  at  even." 

The  spring  advanced.  Each  evening  whispered  of  a  new 
beputy,  each  night  saw  the  birth  of  a  new  mystery,  each 
morning  revealed  it  in  nature's  mirror,  each  day  bespoke 
some  completion  of  beauty,  some  fulfillment  of  hope. 

Spring — "all  bloom  and  desire" — is  not  the  time  for 
love  to  end.  It  is  rather  the  growing  time  of  every  tender 
joy,  and  Homer  Wilson  found  himself  hoping  against 
hope.  He  contrived  to  meet  Myron  very  often  now,  in 
the  early  mornings  or  late  twilight,  as  she  traversed  the 
road  between  the  village  and  Mrs.  Deans',     He  had  don© 


THE    UNTEMri'.RED   WIND 


333 


5pth 


for 
ider 
linst 
in 
I  the 

one 


what  he  could  to  dissuado  her  from  going  to  Mrs.  J)ean8*, 
but  a  refusal  to  do  so  meant  a  full  acceptance  of  his  aid. 
JNfyron  held  back  her  hand  from  such  overwhelming  alms. 
Homer  had  done,  therefore,  what  he  could  for  her — 
ploughed  the  little  lot  about  her  house  and  planted  it  with 
potatoes  and  vegetables  for  her,  and  mended  the  fence  and 
piled  great  heaps  of  split  wood  in  the  woodshed. 

He  pleaded  with  her  sometimes,  but  to  no  avail — at  least 
none  that  was  perceptible  to  him.  The  water  beating 
against  a  rock  does  not  realize  its  own  victories;  but  wo 
see  the  honeycombed  cells  that  attest  its  persistence,  and 
predict  that  some  day  the  water  will  have  won  a  way  for 
itself  over  the  fragments  of  the  rocky  barrier.  But  the 
springs  run  dry  sometimes,  and  the  rock  remains  uncon- 
juered,  but  barren  and  parched,  thirsting  for  the  water 
that  loved  it  once.  To  each  successive  plea  Myron  felt  it 
harder  and  harder  to  say  "  No." 

When  Homer  asked  for  her  love,  his  face  shone  with  that 
seraphic  light  that  never  yet  "has  shone  on  land  or  sea," 
and  she  felt  it  very  bitter  to  banish  it.  Sometimes  he 
touched  her  to  tears.  Sometimes,  dry-eyed  she  begged 
him  so  piteously  to  desist  that  he  felt  himself  a  cur  to  have 
urged  her. 

Indeed,  in  those  calm  spring  weeks  his  heart  was  the 
abode  of  perpetual  conflict,  the  place  of  passion  and  pain, 
the  home  of  love  and  longing — 

"  O  fretted  heart,  tossed  to  and  fro, 
Rest  was  nearer  than  thou  wist.  " 

Through  all  these  turbulent  times  Homer  bore  himself 
well.  He  had  again  the  old  genial  manner,  the  old 
patience,  the  old  generosity.  His  people  presumed  upon 
his  unfaltering  good-temper,  and  made  their  demands 
jnore  and  more  exf^cting.     He  gave  all  they  sought  of  his 


|i 


I 


S24 


rilE    UNTEMrKRED   WIND 


il 
il 


if  * 


time,  trouble,  and  inone}^  juul  to  their  re2)roaclic8  replied 
uot  Hgjiin. 

Upon  every  subject  under  the  sun  ho  heard  them 
patiently,  save  the  one  subject  next  his  heart.  That  he 
held  sacred. 

His  mother  had  said  to  him  one  day: 

"  You'll  never  marry  her,  Homer?" 

*'  (Jod  knows  I'm  afraid  1  won't,"  he  stud. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say "  began  his  mother. 

"There  is  nothing  but  this  to  say,"  he  answered,  very 
(piietly,  but  in  a  voice  that  silenced  her;  "  1  would  give  my 
right  hand — my  life — everything — if  1  could  persuade 
Myron  Holder  to  marry  me." 

So  he  left  her;  but  his  nu>thtr's  incredulous exclanuition, 
"You'll  never  marry  her!"  cankered  in  his  heart  like  a 
bitter  prophecy. 

Afterwards,  when  Mrs.  Wilson  thought  over  all  the  days 
and  doifigs  of  her  son,  she  thought  of  this  also,  and  told  the 
conversation  to  her  neighbors,  and  they  all  then  looked 
upon  Myron  Holder  as  one  wno,  having  gotten  a  nuin's 
soul,  would  not  lot  him  assoil  himself  by  marrying  her. 

But  this  was  after. 

The  old  rag  peddler  going  his  rounds  stopped  once  more 
at  Mrs.  Deans'  door.  Little  My  trotted  out  from  the 
kitchen,  and  the  ohl  peddler  eyed  him  with  the  longing 
gaze  of  a  childless  man.  Mrs.  Deans  bargained  for  her 
pie-plates,  and  My  stood  gazing  reflectively  at  the  big  black 
horse. 

"  Say,  Mrs.  Deans,"  said  the  ragman,  "  whose  young  one 
is  that?" 

"Oh,"  answ'cred  Mrs.  Deans,  feelingly,  "  tiiat's  Myron 
Holder's  brat!" 

"You  don't  say!  Well,  'taint  much  like  the  Holders. 
I  kaowed  Jed,"  he  added,  after  a  pause. 


cd 

L?tU 

ho 


very 

)  my 
iiado 

.tioii, 
like  a 

days 
id  tho 

toUed 
|nau'B 
Icr. 

more 
in  the 

Ir  lier 
I  black 


1 2  one 

r  o 


l^lyrou 
llders. 


THE    VNTEMrERlil)   WIND 


225 


That  night  tlio  ragman  drove  homo,  his  van  licavily 
hulen,  and  Iiis  wifo  helped  \\\\\\  to  bestow  tho  canvas  sacks 
in  the  barn,  and  hiter  looked  over  his  stock  of  tins  and 
ran  over  the  book.  She  was  a  queer  little  figure.  Her 
dross  was  of  dark  woollen  stull  that  they  gave  her  husband 
at  the  shoddy-mills.  It  was  curiously  and  lavishly  adorned 
with  buttons:  thero  wore  rows  of  buttons  on  the  sleeves 
from  wrist  to  elbow,  a  veritable  breast-plato  of  them  on 
the  bodice;  they  jingled  on  her  shoulders  and  glistened  on 
her  skirts. 

In  a  deep-down  corner  of  her  miserly  little  soul  there 
lurked  a  taste  for  finery.  Denied  legitimate  exproasion 
by  her  miserliness,  it  fouiul  vent  in  this  barbaric  adorn- 
ing of  her  gowns.  The  pearl  and  crockery  buttons  she 
did  not  use — those  she  sewed  on  cards  to  resell;  but  all  the 
fancy  metal  ones  she  found  on  the  rags,  being  unsalable, 
she  appropriated  toward  the  decoration  of  her  penurious 
person,  and  let  her  fancy  run  riot  in  tho  arrangement  of 
them. 

"  Where's  the  littlo  red  tin  mug?"  she  asked  her  hus- 
band, as  she  pored  over  his  ragged  daybook.  "  I  don't  see 
it  in  the  van,  and  I  don't  see  it  nuirked  in  the  sales." 

Her  husband  shifted  uneasily. 

"I  give  it  to  Myron  Holder's  young  one.  Ho  was  play- 
ing about  tho  wagon  at  Deans'." 

"  You  did !"  said  his  wife.     "  You  dnl !     What  for?" 

"  Iknowed  Jed,"  began  her  husband,  apologetically;  but 
he  was  cut  short  by  a  contemptuous  snub  from  his  wife. 

This  was  tho  chronicling  of  a  little  incident  that  glad- 
dened Myron's  heart  inexpressibly. 

In  Myron's  mind  tliere  was  slowly  forming  an  idea  at 
this  time — an  idea  of  change.  It  was  but  dimly  sliadowed 
fo.*th  yet;  but  wlien  the  time  came  for  it  to  take  definite 
t  did  so  at  once,  and  was  so  well  established  that  it 


shape 


\\\ 


i5 


226 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


seemed  the  settled  and  legitimate  conclusion  of  long  rea- 
soning. In  the  mean  time  the  thought  only  came  to  her 
hazily — sometimes  in  the  i)auses  of  her  work  when  she 
heard  Mrs.  Deans  speaking  of  the  town ;  sometimes  when, 
in  the  early  morning,  she  saw  far  away  across  the  lake 
the  smoke  of  a  steamer;  sometimes  when,  at  noontide, 
the  whistle  of  far-off  trains  smote  through  the  air,  or  when, 
returning  to  the  village  at  night,  she  noted  the  telegraph- 
poles,  with  their  single  wire.  '  They  seemed  to  incline  from 
the  village — away  from  its  self-righteous  roof-trees  and 
censorious  chimneys;  away  and  above  its  babbling  door- 
steps and  carping  streets — and  to  point  out  into  a  wider, 
freer,  unknown  world. 

Often  she  turned  to  look  along  the  way  they  pointed. 
They  took  her  eyes  eastward,  and  at  night  the  eastern 
prospect  is  dull  and  gray.  From  this  forbidding  outlook 
she  would  turn  her  eyes,  with  a  shudder,  and  they  would 
fall  upon  the  trees  of  Deans'  woodland,  illumined  by  the 
sun  which  set  behind  them. 

But  if  the  eastern  gray  made  her  despond,  the  western 
glow  behind  those  trees  made  her  despair.  She  withdrew 
her  gaze  and  hastened  to  the  blank  twilight  of  the  village. 

It  was  summer,  and  Homer  Wilson,  walking  through 
his  fields,  was  thinking  of.  Myron  Holder.  He  had  gone 
early  to  town  that  morning,  and  as  he  passed  the  cottage 
she  issued,  with  little  My,  from  the  door. 

The  dew  lay  heavy  on  the  grass ;  the  silence  was  stirred 
by  the  singing  of  birds;  the  haze  that  lay  over  the  land 
presaged  a  day  of  intense  heat.  The  fires  were  being 
lighted  in  the  village,  and  the  first  smoke  was  lingering 
lazily  above  the  roofs.  The  hopvines  about  the  cottage 
glistened  at  every  point  with  drops  of  dew,  and,  as  the 
sparrows  twittered  through  the  tendrils,  they  sent  sparkling 
little  showers  down.     The  morning-glories  that  Myron  had 


1 J 

r 


*n 


THE    UN  TEMPER  ED   WIND 


227 


planted  beneath  the  window  were  covered  with  their  cup- 
like blooms.  There  is  no  flower  on  earth  more  beautiful  in 
delicate  fragility  of  texture,  in  purity  of  tint,  in  shape 
and  translucent  color  than  a  morning-glory  with  the  dew 
upon  it. 

It  was  a  morning  to  live  and  love  in.  And  it  seemed  to 
Homer  Wilson  that  the  whole  gracious  aspect  of  the  day 
was  completed  by  the  forms  of  Myron  and  her  boy  as  they 
stood  without  the  gate. 

His  heart  yearned  for  her  as  he  helped  her  into  the 
wagon  by  his  side.  At  Mrs.  Deans'  he  lifted  her  down, 
holding  her  for  an  instant  in  his  arms.  The  keen 
"  possessive  pang"  that  thrilled  him  shook  his  spirit  with 
its  sacred  sweetness. 

And  to-night  he  was  going  to  her  with  yet  another 
prayer  upon  his  lips. 

The  sultry  day  had  fulfilled  the  prophecy  of  the  misty 
morning.  The  air  was  heavy  with  odors.  Every  weed 
and  grass,  each  flower  and  vine,  each  bush  and  tree,  had 
given  its  quota  of  perfume  to  form  the  frankincense  that 
nature  offers  to  the  midsummer  moon.  The  exhalations 
from  a  million  tiny  cells  mingled  together  in  that  odorous 
oblation. 

And  as  he  crossed  the  fields  Homer  saw  the  moon,  round 

and  red,  rising  slowly  over  the  lake.     Slowly — slowly — it 

rose,  paling  as  it  attained  the  higher  heavens,  until  it 

soared — 

"  In  voluptuous  whiteness,  Juno-likc, 
V  A  passionate  splendor" — 

most  worthy  to  be  worshipped. 

As  Homer  knocked  at  Myron's  door  the-  moon  veiled 
itself  behind  some  close-wreathed  clouds,  so  that  from  the 
dimness  of  the  cloudy  sky  Homer  passed  within  the 
doorway. 


I 


•iLm^mm 


228 


T//E    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


\  i 


The  moon  was  etill  obscured  when  he  emerged,  so  that 
liis  face  was  hid.  But  before  him  there  stretched,  at 
hist  seen  with  clear  eyes,  tlie  defniite  dreariness  of  a  soli- 
tary life.  Behind  him  he  knew  a  woman  lay  prone  upon 
a  bare  floor,  sobbing  and  wrestling  with  the  evil  of  her 
own  nature,  with  hard-wrought  hands  half-outstretched 
to  him — half-withdrawn,  to  cover  her  shamed  eyes. 
Within  his  breast  he  bore  the  memory,  not  of  rejection  or 
of  rebuke,  but  the  echo  of  a  plea  for  mercy — the  broken 
syllables  of  a  woman's  voice  raised  in  an  appeal  for  help 
against  her  own  weakness. 

Nor  had  it  been  made  in  vain.  For  Homer  Wilson,  in 
the  moment  of  that  supreme  temptation,  had  risen  supe- 
rior to  himself — had  put  aside  his  own  strength  to  help  her 
weakness — had  overcome  his  passion  with  his  love.  He 
had  uttered  a  passionate  word  or  two  of  comprehension, 
offered  an  incoherent  pledge  of  aid — comfort — approval — 
and  then,  stumbling  out  of  the  door,  hastened  away,  disre- 
garding, for  lier  sake,  the  cry  of  "Homer — Homer!"  that 
seemed  to  follow  him. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

Each  of  us  has  a  wilderness  and  a  temptation  therein, 
although  oft  we  pass  through  it,  unrecking  of  the  devils  that 
attend  us  until  they  have  stolen  all  they  sought.  Some- 
times our  wilderness  is  a  perfumed  garden,  through  which 
insidious  devils  dog  our  laggard  footsteps.  Sometimes  it 
is  a  shaded  pleasaunce,  through  which  we  tread  with 
stately  steps,  unwitting  of  the  derisive  demons  that  smile 
as  they  mock  our  pageantry  of  pride.  With  retrospective 
agony,  we  turn  to  gaze  upon  the  mirages  of  these  scenes, 
as  one  views  sunlit  seas  where  wrecks  have  been,  and  cry 
aloud,  "Here  much  precious  treasure  was  lost!"  But 
there  are  other  wildernesses  wherein  we  wander,  con- 
sciously beset  with  lilvil  Spirits  whose  faces  we  know, 


rilE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


229 


hat 


ich 


lith 
I  lie 
live 
^es, 
3ry 
Jut 
m- 


It  was  thus  with  Myron  Holder.  Her  wilderness  was 
indeed  "a  land  of  sand  and  thorns,"  thorns  whose  acrid 
Bap  was  sucked  from  salt  pools  of  tears.  And  the  Spectre 
Demon  that  beset  her  there  wtis  the  Devil  of  her  own  pas- 
sion. By  day  it  lingered  round  her  steps,  tempting  her 
with  suggestions  of  the  Lethean  draught  its  jileasures 
would  bring,  whispering  to  her  how  excusable  she  would 
be  if  she  yielded  to  its  allurements ;  for  it  did  not  fail  to 
point  out  that  she  had  no  debt  of  kindness  to  repay  with 
worthiness. 

All  day  she  fought  against  this  Tempting  One,  who 
speedily  enleagued  all  the  other  evils  of  her  nature  to  aid 
him. 

The  battle  raged  fiercely,  the  bright  light  in  her  eyes, 
the  flaming  cheeks  and  trembling  hands  attesting  the 
strife.  One  night,  when  the  heat  of  summer  made  even 
the  night  winds  sultry,  when  all  nature  was  in  the  full 
height  of  its  development,  when  the  fields  were  deep  in 
grass  and  the  clover  heavy  with  bloom — on  such  a  night 
the  door  of  a  hop-clad  cottage  in  Jamestown  opened  softly 
and  closed  as  gently,  and  through  the  sleeping  streets  and 
out  into  the  country  a  wild  figure  sped.  She,  for  it  was  a 
woman,  with  flushed  cheeks  .ind  loose-coiled  hair, 
advanced  a  short  distance  along  the  highway,  and  then, 
swiftly  climbing  the  fence,  made  her  way  diagonally  across 
the  fields  of  dew-drenched  grass — across  one  field,  another, 
and  another — holding  her  slanting  course  as  steadily  and 
unswervingly  as  though  she  followed  a  beaten  track. 

As  she  ran,  the  spirit  of  the  night  and  the  intoxicating 
odor  of  flowers  and  grasses  entered  into  her  and  steeped 
her  senses  in  a  delirium  of  freedom.  She  sprang  on — now 
running,  now  half-dancing,  once  going  a  rod  or  two  in  the 
old  childish  "  hippety-hop"  fashion. 

She  reached  the  boundary  of  Deans'   woodland,   and 


*   m- 


230 


TI/£    UNTEMPRRED  WIND 


plunged  into  its  shadows  with  as  littlo  hesitation  as  she 
had  entered  tlie  field  of  clover.  She  threaded  the  wood 
swiftly,  her  eyes  fixed  straight  before  her,  never  seeming  to 
see  the  obstacles  which  opposed  her  path,  although  she 
avoided  them  unerringly. 

Bats  whose  eyes  have  been  pierced  out  exercise  this 
same  blind  avoidance  of  obstacles,  and  it  was  only  this 
woman's  heart  that  had  been  wounded. 

She  held  on  her  way. 

At  length  she  saw  a  far-off  gleam  of  water,  and  knew  she 
had  all  but  reached  her  destination. 

On  she  went,  and,  pushing  through  the  dense  mass  of 
witch-hazel  bushes  that  grew  along  the  top  of  the  lake 
bank,  jumped.  It  seemed  a  leap  to  destruction,  for 
Deans'  woods  bounded  the  lake  here  with  high,  precipitous 
cliffs;  but  the  path  to  that  spot  was  marked  by  her  heart- 
blood,  and  she  had  made  no  error  in  following  it.  She  had 
a  drop  of  four  feet  or  so ;  and  then  she  stood  upon  a  long, 
narrow,  jutting  ledge,  surrounded  by  the  tops  of  the  trees 
that  grew  below  it  on  the  bank  proper.  From  the  top  of 
the  bank  it  was  almost  invisible — entirely  so,  unless  the 
looker  penetrated  the  witch-hazel  hedge.  From  the  lake 
it  was  plainly  seen. 

Here,  then,  she  paused,  looking  forth  over  the  water, 
and  being  scorned  by  the  ihoon — 

"  For  so  it  is,  with  past  delights 

She  taunts  men's  brains  and  maizes  them  mad.  " 


She  stood  upon  the  rocky  point  and  held  out  her 
clasped  hands  despairingly.  Her  hair,  loosened  by  many  a 
tugging  branch,  fell  about  her  in  wild  disorder — now  blown 
across  her  flushed  cheeks,  wild  eyes  and  parted  lips;  now 
wrenched  back  by  the  high  wind,  its  whole  weight  stream- 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


«3f 


ing  behind  her;  now  framing  her  face  in  dusky  convolu- 
tions. 

In  the  mute  agony  of  her  gesture,  slie  seemed  a  fit  em- 
blem of  despairing  grief — the  grief  of  Psyche  for  Adonis. 

The  moon  broke  from  the  embrace  of  its  clouds  and 
sailed  high  up  into  the  night,  then  faded  towards  the 
horizon. 

And  still  she  stood,  outwearing  her  passion  by  her 
patience.  About  her  surged  all  the  weird  melodies  that 
loneliness  and  night  and  despair  smite  from  the  heart- 
strings. The  blood  sang  in  her  ears,  a  monotonous  ohli- 
gaio  to  those  piercing  notes. 


3r, 


m 
^w 


She  looked  out  into  the  night.  Her  eyes  demanded 
from  it  some  balm  to  soothe  their  burning;  her  heart 
some  solace  for  its  pain.  Her  soul  cried  out  against  the 
silence  without,  which  seemed  such  a  maddening  environ- 
ment to  the  fightings  within.  Her  whole  being  demanded 
an  answering  emotion  from  some  one  or  something. 

"Shake  out,  carols  1 
Solitary  here — the  night's  carols  1 
Carols  of  lonesome  love  1    Death's  carols ! 
Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon — 
Oh,  under  that  moon  where  she  drops  almost  down  into  the  sea ! 
Oh,  reckless,  despairing  carols  1 " 

But  the  moon  was  mute,  the  night  silent,  and  she  was 
alone.  She  could  not  analyze  her  own  emotions,  nor  vivi- 
sect her  own  soul;  could  not  separate  shreds  of  Desire, 
fibres  of  loneliness,  tissues  of  misery,  until  she  had  disin- 
tegrated the  whole  mass  of  Despair  that  was  crushing  her. 

She  could  but  suffer. 


She  lay  prone  upon  the  ledge  of  rock,  her  hands  clutch- 


333 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


ing  the  short,  glossy  mountain  grass;  resisting  the  wooing 
of  the  airy  space  below  that  called  her  to  oblivion,  pur- 
chased by  one  leap  outward — a  leap — 'uo,  one  single  step — 
out  into  the  kindly  air. 

How  small  a  price  at  which  to  buy  immunity  from  those 
thorny  roads  she  trod  with  bleeding  feet,  alone!  Alone? 
Ah!  Little  My!  .  .  .  The  leaves  were  stirring  with 
the  morning's  breath;  the  birds  had  not  begun  to  sing 
yet,  but  were  moving  lestlessly  upon  the  branches  and 
uttering  their  first  waking  calls — those  ineffably  sad  herald- 
ings  of  earliest  dawn  or  latest  night! 

"  Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns, 
The  earliest  pipd  of  half-awakened  birds ! " 

The  world  lay  silent  under  a  reflectionless  moonstone 
dome  of  gray  when  Myron  Holder,  with  dew-drenched 
skirts  and  hair,  relaxed  limbs  and  pallid  cheeks,  entered 
the  house  where  her  child  yet  slept.  Of  the  night's  tur- 
moil there  was  no  trace  save  the  signs  of  physical  exhaus- 
tion. Her  face  was  calm,  her  lips  firm ;  her  eyes  shone 
undimmed  with  tears,  unblurred  by  passion. 


if 


i 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


"  Yea,  then  were  all  things  laid  within  the  scale- 
Pleasure  and  lust,  love  and  desire  of  fame, 

Kindness,  and  hope,  and  folly,  all  the  tale 
Told  in  a  moment — as  across  him  came 
That  sudden  flash,  bright  as  the  lightning  flame, 

Showing  the  wanderer  on  the  waste  how  he 

Has  gone  astray  'mid  dark  and  misery.  " 

Outwardly  the  lives  of  Myron  Holder  and  Homer  Wil- 
son gave  no  sign  of  these  conflicts.  It  is  the  petty  worries 
and  every-day  griefs  of  life  that  trace  lines  upon  the 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


233 


I 


\- 


Is 


brow.  A  fretful  discontent  often  leaves  a  wrinkle  when 
a  great  grief  obscures  itself  behind  the  placidity  of  despair. 

Myron  Holder's  face  now  shone  in  unaltered — and  it 
seemed  unalterable — calm.  That  wild  night  had  not  been 
spent  in  vain.  Self-2)oised,  if  humble,  her  life  seemed 
centred  calmly  at  last. 

As  for  Homer  Wilson;  H,  was  different  with  him.  His 
heart  was  still  parched  with  the  "  thirst  that  thirsteth  on," 
but  he  no  longer  sought  for  draughts  to  slake  it.  His 
attitude  approximated  that  of  those  who,  dying  of  seme 
dreadful  disease,  accept  their  fate  and,  looking  the  inevit- 
able in  the  face,  long  for  the  end. 

One  day  he  found  in  his  pocket  the  old  bullet  ho  had 
picked  up  from  the  crevice  in  the  rock.  He  turned  it 
over,  wondering  where  he  got  it;  then  remembering,  a  bit- 
ter thought  crossed  his  mind  that  he  was  like  that  bullet. 
His  life-impetus  gone,  he  was  but  a  thing  for  the  sun  to 
scorn.  Myron,  no  longer  trembling  for  herself,  felt  a  deep 
tenderness  spring  within  her  heart  for  Homer,  and  sought 
to  show  him  in  every  way  that  he  was  her  only  friend  and 
that  she  trusted  him. 

Myron  had  almost  made  up  her  mind  to  leave  James- 
town, and  a  little  incident  that  occurred  one  day  strength- 
ened this  thought  to  a  resolution.  The  school-house 
was  quite  near  the  Holder  cottage:  the  playground  bor- 
dered one  side  of  the  cottage  garden ;  a  fence  of  slackly 
hung  wires  was  bet  7een  them;  beyond  the  fence  in  the 
playground  was  a  little  ditch  with  heaped-up  sides,  on 
which  grew  many  yellow  buttercups.  This  was  a  favorite 
haunt  for  the  younger  school  children,  and  their  voices 
came  in  mingled  cadences  across  Myron's  rows  of  vege- 
tables. 

One  day  in  later  summer  Myron  was  at  home  from  Mrs. 
Deans',  having  by  that  lady's  desire  brought  the  weekly 


,*l 


234 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


washing  from  the  farm,  to  do  it  in  the  cottage.  The  win- 
dows were  flung  high,  and  tli rough  the  rising  steam  from 
her  wash  tubs  Myron's  eyes  followed  My's  golden  head  as 
he  trotted  about  the  garden.  Looking  up  once,  she  saw 
him  standing  by  the  fence,  holding  to  one  swaying  wire 
and  peering  through  at  the  children  in  the  playground. 
A  momentary  pang  shot  through  her  heart — he  seem  id  so 
isolated  there ;  and  yet  the  barrier  that  separated  him  from 
the  other  Jamestown  cln'l'^  '^n  w  so  slight — just  a  slack- 
wire  fence — that  any  one  couia  ooe  through,  that  hung 
irregularly  between  its  supports,  now  so  low  that  it  could 
be  stepped  over,  again  so  high  it  seemed  impassable,  only 
where  it  was  so  lofty  the  spaces  between  the  wires  were 
wide  enough  to  creep  through. 

The  sunlight  shone  on  both  sides  the  same.  The  butter- 
cups straggled  through  to  the  vegetables,  seeming  by  their 
persistence  to  wish  to  bloom  there,  and  the  singing  of  the 
catbird  in  the  elm  tree  was  as  sweet  to  My's  ears  as  to 
Sammy  Warner's  upon  the  other  side. 

Nature  made  no  diiference;  aevertheless  there  was  a  bar- 
rier. My  was  effectually  severed  from  the  rest  of  the 
village,  but  he  himself  had  not  recognized  that  yet,  and 
the  next  time  Myron  looked  up  she  saw  My  had  gone 
through  the  fence  and  had  seated  himself  beside  the 
others. 

They  had  taken  their  places  in  an  irregular  row  .among 
the  buttercups,  jostling  and  nudging  each  other,  saying 
"  Gimme  elbow  room,"  and  "  Quit  pushin',"  as  they  settled 
themselves  comfortably  to  the  business  of  the  moment. 

This  was  the  time-honored  trial  to  decide  wliich  of  them 
liked  butter,  ascertained  by  holding  a  spray  of  buttercups 
against  the  throat,  so  that  the  reflection  was  cast  \x\  on  the 
uptilted  chin.  The  taste  for  butter  is  proportionate  to 
the  yellowness  of  the  reflection. 


iilHIl 

\  Hi  I 

ci  II 111 


THE   VNTEMPERED  WIMD 


235 


3m 

ips 

the 

to 


k 


Little  Jenny  Muir  wtis  jiulgo  and  the  rest  jury,  craning 
their  necks  forward  to  h)ok  as  slio  passed  from  oTie  to  the 
other,  holding  a  bunch  of  buttercups  against  their  chests 
whilst  they  tilto  ^  their  chins  far  back.  The  dull  blues, 
washed-out  reds,  and  russet  browns  of  the  children's  frocks 
enhanced  the  brilliant  yellow  of  the  flowers.  The  shadows 
of  the  big  pear  tree,  glossy  of  leaf  but  barren  of  fruit, 
modulated  the  sunshine,  so  that  the  whole  group  showed  in 
a  soft,  subdued  glow,  an  idyl  of  child  life  not  unlovely, 
for  the  heads  in  the  row  were  not  yet  bent  to  the  dust  to 
search  for  money,  nor  lifted  to  heaven  in  self-righteous 
conceit.  Time  had  not  dulled  the  childish  gold  to  brown, 
nor  deadened  the  flaxen  heads  to  lustreless  drab. 

My  placed  himself  at  the  end  of  the  row,  his  head  a 
golden  period  at  the  end  of  the  human  sentence  that 
spoke  of  life's  beginnings.  With  unembarrassed  childish 
mimicry,  ho  emulated  the  gestures  and  laughter  of  the 
others. 

Myron's  heart  lightened.  She  wondered  for  a  moment 
if  My  miglit  not  in  time  merge  his  life  with  those  others 
and  be  no  longer  solitary.  The  hope  soon  vanished. 
Looking  out  again,  she  saw  My  sitting  alone,  his  head 
tilted  far  back  as  he  waited  for  his  turn.  Just  disappear- 
ing down  the  slight  decline  to  the  school -house,  she  saw  the 
other  children,  their  hands  held  over  their  months,  their 
faces  red  with  suppressed  laughter,  stepping  with  elaborate 
pretence  of  quiet,  and  turning  now  and  then  to  look  over 
their  shoulders  at  My,  sitting  alone,  his  face  patiently 
uptilted  to  the  sun,  unconscious  of  his  loneliness.  Beside 
him  lay  the  bunch  of  buttercups,  flung  down  as  Jenny 
Muir  clapped  her  hands  over  her  mouth  and  fled  across  the 
soft  sward. 

In  a  moment  Myron  was  out  of  the  house,  running  down 
the  path  to  the  fence  side.     Ere  she  reached  it,  My's  tired 


236 


THE    UX  TEMPER  ED   WIND 


little  nock  relaxed,  and  ho  looked  about  him  wonder ingly, 
the  light  fading  from  his  face.  His  eyes  were  fdled  with 
tears,  and  his  lips  quivered  when  hia  mother  called  him. 
Tliere  was  a  hasty  scramble  over  the  ditch,  a  strnggle 
through  the  fence,  and  My  was  back  on  his  mother's  side 
of  the  barrier.  That  straggling  fence  was,  after  all,  not  so 
easily  crossed. 

My  had  forgotten  the  whole  affair  ten  minutes  after,  as 
he  excitedly  chased  grasshoppers  along  the  paths;  but  all 
day  long  the  laughter  of  the  playing  children  smote 
Myron's  heart  like  the  crack  of  a  whip  that  stings. 

After  that  day  it  became  a  matter  of  conscience  for 
Myron  to  play  the  "  buttercup  game"  Avith  My,  and  a  fever- 
ish eagerness  fairly  consumed  her  to  get  away  from  a  place 
where  even  the  children  were  cruel.  She  began  to  scrimp 
and  save  every  penny  she  could,  hoarding  her  meagre 
gatherings  in  the  bottom  of  the  old  clock-rase  that  stood 
on  the  shelf  beside  the  window. 


It  was  lite  autumn.  Between  the  tree-tops  were  skyey 
lakes  of  uiue  more  brilliant  than  any  blue  of  summer  sky, 
more  evanescent  than  any  of  spring.  The  sun  shone 
through  the  tree-tops  with  an  ineffable,  clear,  cold  light, 
displaying  every  fibre  in  their  leaves  and  imparting  to  them 
a  fragility  wholly  sad. 

A  light  uncertain  wind  rippled  through  the  sumachs, 
giving  their  leaves  a  delicate,  lateral  movement,  as  though 
upon  some  aerial  lyre  they  harped  their  own  requiem, 
touching  its  invisible  strings  lightly  with  blood-tipped 
fingers,  for  the  autumn  coloring  stained  the  green. 

Between  the  boughs  of  the  trees  glistened  those  huge 
octagonal  webs  that  the  wood-spiders  spin  so  persistently 
at  this  season.     There  was  no  sound  of  birds,  only  the 


THE    UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


237 


lil 


;yey 

fky, 

lone 
rht, 
liem 

3h8, 

3m, 
)ed 

ige 
Ltly 
Ithe 


1 


cheerless  shrilliii<?  of  the  autumnal  crickets  and  tlio  dry 
rustle  of  (lead  leaves  as  the  few  grasshoppers  left  alivo 
hopped  torpidly  T'-om  place  to  place  till  they  came  to  the 
spot  to  die. 

The  katydids,  that  six  weeks  before  had  prophesied  so 
cheerily  the  frost  that  was  to  kill  them,  lay  here  and 
there,  little  pale-green  corpses,  wrapped  in  their  lace-like 


wings. 


The  tall  weeds  by  the  pathway,  that  in  summer  had  dis- 
guised themselves  with  blossoms  of  different  colors  and 
shapes,  now  stood  confessed,  with  panicles  of  burs  crown- 
ing their  dishonored  heads. 

It  was  upon  such  a  day  that  Homer  walked  through 
his  woods,  searching  for  a  young  hickory  tree  suitable  to 
cut  down  for  axe-handles.  His  heart,  caught  in  the 
embrace  of  the  surrounding  silence,  suddenly  stilled  its 
throbbing  to  a  steadier  rhythm  than  it  had  known  of  late. 
He  thought  out  clearly  the  motive  that  must  actuate  his 
life,  the  inspiration  that  must  point  his  path. 

Passion  was  indeed  eliminated  from  his  heart,  but  not 
forgotten.  They  tell  us  that  when  an  arm  or  leg  is  ampu- 
tated, one  still  feels  shadowy  aches  and  ghostly  pangs,  in- 
tensifying the  desolate  sense  of  incompleteness  and  loss. 
The  maiming  of  one  part  of  the  body  may  preserve  the 
whole  alive,  but  yet  one  looks  back  with  anguished  regret 
to  the  days  when  he  stood  complete. 

Homer  Wilson  was  learning  that  each  must  "  dree  his 
ain  weird,"  and  the  only  complaint  he  made  against  his 
Fate  was  that  he  could  not  alter  Myron's. 

Night  fell  soon  and  swiftly  now.  The  sun  seemed  glad  to 
sink  out  of  sight.  Its  feeble  rays  brought  no  heat  to  the 
leaves  it  had  called  to  life.  The  sad  silence  of  the  trees 
seemed  a  mute  reproach  against  the  light  that  brought 
forth  but  could  not  sustain  their  foliage. 


Mtmmii 


THE    UNrEMPERED   WIND 


That  evening  in  the  chill  twilight,  Homer  overtook 
Myron  and  her  boy  returning  from  Mrs.  Deans'.  Slackening 
his  pace,  he  walked  with  them  to  the  village.  The  air  was 
very  quiet,  "silent  as  a  nun  breathless  with  adoration." 
As  they  passed  along  the  road  there  came  an  earthy  breath 
from  the  fresh-turned  soil  in  the  fields,  whei .  they  had 
been  lifting  the  potatoes  and  the  turnips.  It  had  none  of 
the  fresh  fruitiness  of  spring:  instead  it  was  redolent  with 
sad  suggestions,  an  atmosphere  in  which  one  involuntarily 
lowered  the  voice  and  stilled,  a  laugh. 

They  passed  the  little  graveyard  where  the  virgin  bower 
clematis,  already  denuded  of  leaves,  garlanded  the  pickets 
with  brittle,  bare,  brown  branches,  softened  here  and  there 
by  the  downy  whorls  of  seed.  Myron  was  telling  Homer 
of  her  wish  to  leave  Jamestown,  and  asking  his  advice. 
He  had  long  felt  this  to  be  one  possible  solution  of  the 
position,  but  there  were  points  that  troubled  him  sorely. 
It  was  obvious  that  the  best  that  could  happen  to  Myron 
would  be  the  return  of  the  man  for  whom  she  had  sulfered 
so  much.  Homer  confessed  to  himself  that  he  had  no 
hope  that  he  would  return,  but  yet  had  grown  very  un- 
certain and  humble  about  his  own  judgment,  and  ho 
thought  Myron  still  believed  in  her  betrayer's  return.  If 
he  should  return  and  Myron  be  gone?  Would  that  not 
afford  him  a  somewhat  tenable  excuse  for  continued  infi- 
delity? Suppose  he  should  return  and  inquire  for  Myron 
Holder  in  the  village?  Homer  sickened  to  think  of  the 
distorted  picture  that  would  then  be  drawn  of  her  patient 
life. 

As  has  been  said.  Homer  had  not  a  shadow  of  hope  that 
he  would  return,  but  he  thought  Myron  had.  Sharpened 
as  Homer's  perceptions  were  by  pain  and  love,  they  were 
not  yet  keen  enough  to  grasp  clearly  how  slight  a  shred  of 
hope  remained  of  all  her  brave  fabr?^  of  belief.     He  could 


/i 


/■?^::"^itt'. 


TY/iS    UmWTEMPERED   WIND 


339 


3nt 

lat 

led 

lore 

of 

bid 


not  imdv'jrstand  how  nmch  of  Myron's  faithfulness  was  due 
to  her  own  womanhood,  how  little  now  to  any  hope  of 
reparation.  He  therefore  hesitated  when,  laying  every- 
thing before  him,  she  asked  him  to  decide. 

As  they  nertred  the  village  they  walked  yet  more  slowly. 
They  had  mnch  to  say,  and  since  that  midsummer  night 
Homer  had  never  entered  the  oott' :  oor.  There  seemed 
to  issue  from  its  portals  forever  .  vok!  calling,  "Homer, 
Homer,"  a  voice  whose  infinite  longiiigs  and  needs  shook 
his  soul  with  a  sense  of  liis  own  impotency. 

Little  My  wearied,  and  Homer  iu,iaed  him  in  his  arms. 
So  they  made  their  way  to  the  cottage — they  two  alone,  for 
the  child  slept,  and  a  strange  loneliness  Jay  over  the  quiet 
road  and  empty  street.  Myron  took  My  witliin  doors, 
and,  coming  out,  she  and  Homer  paced,  side  by  side,  up  and 
down  the  little  centre  path.  On  either  side  were  vege- 
tables and  withering  grass,  and  down  in  the  far  corner  the 
huge  yellow  globes  of  the  pumpkins;  showed  solidly  through 
the  dusk. 

"  Indeed,  Myron  dear,  it  would  be  easier  for  you  if  you 
went,"  he  said,  as  they  stood  together  \i\  the  sliadow  of  the 
elm  tree;  "and  later  on  My  might  have  a  happier  time. 
For  my  part,  I  would  have  spoken  of  it  long  since,  only — 

only ''  He  paused,  and  added  in  lower  tones,  "  I  knew 

the  hope  you  lived  In." 

She  bent  toward  hrm  and  said,  very  quietly  bii'  teadily, 
''  I  have  no  vestige  of  tliat  hope  left.  Homer." 

He  looked  down  at  her,  an  eagerness  that  strove  against 
repression  in  his  eyes. 

*  Kg,  "she  continued,  "My  and  I  must  hold  our  way 
alono.  Teil  me,  then,  Homer,  do  you  think  it  would  be 
ever  so  little  easier  if  we  went  away  from  here?" 

Her  eyes  lield  his,  pleadingly,  and  filled  with  tears.  It 
was  one  of  the  rare  times  when  she  felt  self-pity. 


_e " 


240 


THE    UN  TEMPER  ED   WIND 


"Yes,  dear,"  he  said,  taking  her  hands,  that  fluttered 
nervously;  "  yes,  we  will  make  it  easier — we  will  find  a  way 
for  you  to  leave  all  this  behind.  You  shall  go  and  lose 
yourself,  so  that  their  prying  eyes  shall  never  find  you, 
their  itching  ears  never  hear  of  you,  their  lying  lips  have 
nothing  to  tell  of  you — only,  Myron,  you  will  never  try  to 
hide  from  me,  will  you?" 

"Oh,  Homer!"  she  cried,  "I  would  be  lost  indeed  then. 
Oh,  no!     I  could  not  bear  to  have  you  forget  me." 

His  face  lighted  in  the  dusk  with  a  happiness  that  had 
long  been  a  stranger — a  chastened  light,  perhaps,  when 
compared  with  the  radiance  evoked  by  his  first  love,  but  a 
steadier  flame,  lit  in  the  heart,  not  in  the  eyes  alone. 

"Well,  I  will  think  it  all  out,  Myron;  to-morrow  will 
surely  find  me  with  a  way  planned  for  you.  I  wish, 
indeed,  that  I  too  could  go  with  you,  that  I  also  could  find 
a  road  out  of  Jamestown." 

He  said  good-night,  and  turned  to  go.  He  was  almost 
at  the  gate  when  she  ran  after  him. 

"  Wait  a  moment.  Homer,"  she  called  softly;  "  wait!" 

He  turned  quickly. 

"You  know  how  I  think  of  you?"  she  asked.  "You 
know  you  are  my  only  friend — my  dear  friend — my 
brother?  You  know  this?  Do  you  think  that  going  away 
from  Jamestown  will  make  up  for  not  seeing  you?  I  am 
afraid — I — I — I  think.  Homer,  I  will  stay." 

Homer  gave  a  little  laugh,  so  sweet  these  words  were  to 
him. 

"  My  dear,  you  shall  go  away,  and  yet  shall  see  me  too, 
sometimes.  I  could  not  stand  it  to  be  without  a  sight  of 
My  and  you  now  and  then." 

She  clasped  her  hands. 

"Oh,  could  I  se3  you  sometimes?  Then  think  hard  to- 
jiight,  Homer,  and  find  out  the  way  to-morrow," 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


241 


J 


to 


of 


Thero  was  another  good-night,  and  they  parted. 

Tlie  next  day  Myron,  having  been  sent  to  the  village  by 
Mrs.  Deans,  went  to  the  grocery  store  to  buy  some  things 
for  herself,  for  it  was  Saturday,  and  she  did  not  go  to  Mrs. 
Deans'  on  Sunday.  Whilst  she  stood  waiting  until  Mrs. 
Wilson  was  served.  My  ran  in  and  out  of  the  door,  a  little, 
tottering  figure,  clad  in  a  queerly  made  blue  and  white 
checked  piuafore.  Mrs.  Wilson  did  her  shopping  leisurely, 
discoursing  upon  the  pros  and  cons  of  asthma  the  while, 
for  which  she  strongly  recommended  the  smoking  of  cigars 
made  of  mullein-leaves.  She  turned  from  the  counter  at 
length,  and,  passing  Myron  Holder  with  uplifted  chin, 
made  her  way  to  the  door.  It  was  encumbered  with  an 
open  barrel  of  salt  mackerel,  by  which  stood  little  My, 
balancing  slowly  back  and  forth  on  his  uncertain  feet,  the 
sun  glinting  on  his  yellow  head.  Mrs.  Wilson  pushed  the 
little  form  roughly  aside  and  went  out.  My  swayed  and 
fell,  striking  his  head  on  the  step. 

Hot  anger  flushed  Myron's  cheeks  at  the  incident.  She 
picked  up  the  boy,  soothed  him  with  a  word  or  two,  and 
gave  him  a  biscuit  from  the  bag  the  groceryman  was 
weighing  for  her.  My  trotted  off  to  the  door,  and  pres- 
ently crossed  the  threshold  into  the  street. 

Myron  Holder  was  just  opening  the  shiny  old  purse  to 
pay  for  her  small  purchase  when  a  confused  sound  of  shout- 
ing and  exclamations  came  to  her.  Through  the  hum  of 
voices  sounded  the  thud- thud  of  flying  hoof- beats.  Her 
eyes  sought  My.     He  was  not  there ! 

She  and  the  groceryman  reached  the  door  in  an  instant. 
The  street  seemed  thronged  with  people.  Mrs.  Wilson  had 
just  emerged  from  Mrs.  Warner's,  and  stood  with  her  at 
the  door. 

Homer  Wilson  was  about  to  untie  his  team,  that  stood 
before  the  harness-shop  just  opposite  the  grocery  store. 
10 


242 


THE    UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


\    I  ii 


At  the  same  moment  that  Myron  emerged  from  the  store 
Homer  turned  his  eyes  to  the  street.  He  saw  and  under- 
stood what  Myron's  anguished  eyes  had  perceived  at  the 
first  glance.  In  the  middle  of  the  sandy  street,  the  biscuit 
in  one  hand,  the  corner  of  his  pinafore  in  the  other,  his 
head  shining  in  the  sun  which  bedazzled  his  eyes,  stood 
little  My. 

Thundering  down  the  street,  almost  upon  the  child 
already,  came  Disney's  great  black  horse,  its  huge  head 
outstretched,  its  nostrils  distended — two  glowing  scarlet 
pits — its  lips  drawn  back,  exposing  the  gleaming  teeth 
flecked  with  blood-stained  foam,  flinging  its  forefeet  out 
so  madly  that  the  glitter  of  its  shoes  could  be  seen  from 
the  front.  Shreds  of  its  harness  clung  to  it  and  lashed  it 
to  greater  fury. 

Without  a  second's  hesitation,  Myron  Holder  rushed  to 
her  child — to  death,  as  she  doubted  not.  But  another  form 
sprang  forward  also.  Homer  Wilson  darted  diagonally 
across  the  street  until  he  was  directly  in  the  pathway  of 
the  horse,  but  a  yard  or  two  beyond  My.  He  had  not  time 
to  steady  himself  before  the  brute  was  upon  him.  He 
grasped  at  the  distended  nostrils  of  the  horse,  caught  them, 
but  in  a  sliding  grip, — the  horse  reared  upright.  There 
came  two  sounds — of  hoofs,  striking  not  on  the  resonant 
roadway,  but  with  the  horrible  echoless  blow  that  falls 
upon  flesh,  and  then  the  horse  swept  on ;  but  only  one  of 
his  shoes  was  shining  now,  the  rest  were  dim  with  blood 
and  dust. 

Myron  snatched  her  child  out  of  the  way  as  the  horse 
passed  by  a  hand's  breadth,  and  in  a  moment  she  was  kneel- 
ing by  Homer's  side. 

He  was  dying,  but  a  flicker  of  life  bespoke  the  want  that 
could  only  go  out  with  life.  She  raised  his  head  from  the 
dust  and  iissed  him  on  the  mouth.     He  opened  his  eyesj 


^ite^tlx' 


HE  HAD  NO  TIME  TO  STEADY    HIMSELF  liEFORE  THE  BRUTIJ 

WAS  UPON  HIM, 


THE   UNTEMPFRED  IVIIVD 


245 


tliey  met  hers,  and  an  ineffable  and  unearthly  radiance 
overspread  his  face. 

That  was  all.  He  had  found  his  wa^  out  of  Jamestown. 
Myron's  was  still  to  seek. 

He  was  quite  dead  when  the  others  reached  him.  His 
chest  was  battered  in,  and  the  calk  of  one  hind  shoe  had 
pierced  through  the  thick  brown  hair  and  brought  death. 

"  He  has  outsoared  tbe  shadow  of  our  night, 
Envy,  and  calumny,  and  hate,  and  pain  ; 

And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again. 

From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure ;  and  now  can  never  mourn 

A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain.  " 

Myron  knelt  by  him,  calling  his  name  and  imploring 
him  to  answer  her.  Rough  hands  pushed  her  aside.  She 
fell,  half -dazed.  AVhen  she  came  to  herself,  My  was  cryin"- 
by  her,  and  a  slow  throng  was  moving  towards  Homer's 
wagon,  where  it  stood  before  the  harness-shop. 

Myron  rose  and  ran  after  them,  but  was  met  by  a 
frightful  figure  of  rage.  The  mother  of  the  dead  man, 
who  had  witnessed  his  death,  rushed  at  her,  shrieking  out 
names  of  which  "  murderess"  was  the  least  hard,  and  would 
have  struck  her,  but  some  one  caught  the  upraised  arm 
and  bade  Myron,  with  a  curse,  be  gone. 

Affrighted  and  bewildered,  she  caught  up  My  and  fled 
to  the  cottage. 

Homer  Wilson  was  carried,  in  due  time  to  the  little 
graveyard.  There  followed  a  great  train  of  slowly  moving 
vehicles,  for  the  Wilson  family  connection  was  a  large  one, 
and  his  tragic  death  drew  people  to  come  through  morbid 
curiosity.  Mr.  Prew  preached  and  prayed  at  length,  and 
the  throng  lingered  long  about  the  grave. 

Away  behind  the  stone  wall  that  flanked  the  far  side  of 


i  ^.. 


: 


i 


«■». 


^41 


.^ 


244 


TitE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


the  graveyard  two  figures  stood  hidden,  watching  the 
funeral  rites  from  afar. 

Myron  had  been  refused  admittance  to  the  Wilson  home 
when  she  had  gone  to  plead  for  one  look  at  Homer's  face. 
She  had  been  forbidden  to  enter  the  graveyard.  But  they 
could  not  prevent  her  bringing  My  through  the  desolate 
fields  to  watch  with  baby  eyes  the  burial  of  the  man  who 
had  saved  his  life. 

There  were  many  black-clad  figures  that  day  in  the 
graveyard — many  wet  eyes — many  lamenting  lips;  but  the 
real  mourners  stood  afar  off,  as  we  are  told  they  did  one 
day  long  ago  when  a  cross  with  a  living  Burden  was  up- 
reared  upon  a  hill. 

Mrs.  Wilson  wept  that  Homer  had  been  "  took  unpre- 
pared." But  who  can  tell  what  penitence  or  prayer  purged 
his  soul  when,  between  the  hoof-beats,  he  looked  death  in 
the  eyes?  Who  can  say  there  was  not  time  for  both  plea 
and  pardon  in  those  seconds — if,  indeed,  there  be  One  to 
whom  prayers  go,  from  whom  pardons  come — if  there  be 
One  to  whom  a  thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday  when 
it  is  past,  and  as  a  watch  in  the  night? 

Well,  all  these  things  are  for  us  to  strive  with,  and  few 
there  be  that  bring  back  any  trophy  of  truth  from  that 
warfare;  yet  "still  we  peer  beyond  with  craving  face." 

As  for  Homer  Wilson — 

"  Peace,  peace ! — he  doth  not  sleep  ; 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life.  " 


J 


the 


fjtli:  ON  TEMPERED  WIND 


Mi 


the 
tthe 
[  one 
I  up- 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  The  road  to  death  is  life,  the  gate  of  life  is  death  ; 
»  We  who  wake  shall  sleep,  we  shall  wax  who  wane. 

Let  lis  not  vex  our  souls  for  stoppage  of  a  breath, 
The  fall  of  a  river  that  turneth  not  again.  " 

"  All  things  are  vain  that  wax  and  wane, 
For  which  we  waste  our  breath ; 
Love  only  doth  not  wane  and  is  not  vain — 
Love  only  outlives  death.  " 

The  winter  set  in — a  dreary,  desolate  winter  of  wind  and 
rain,  mud  and  slush.  The  snow  never  lay  upon  the 
ground  for  two  days  together,  and  the  air,  unpurified  by 
frosts,  hung  heavy  and  dank  over  the  land. 

A  black  New  Year  makes  a  green  graveyard,  says  the 
old  proverb ;  and  the  wisdom  of  these  old  saws  was  demon- 
strated yet  again  that  year  in  Jamestown,  for  there  was 
much  sickness.  There  was  hardly  a  family  that  had  not 
lost  a  member,  scarcely  a  house  in  which  there  was  no 
illness. 

"There's  a  turrible  lot  of  sickness,"  said  Mrs.  Deans  to 
Mrs.  Wilson  one  day  at  the  church  door. 

**  Yes,  a  turrible  sight  of  it,"  agreed  Mrs.  Wilson.  " The 
old  folks  is  droppin'  fast;  but  what's  an  ordinary  sickness 
to  what  I've  bore  with?" 

"That's  so,"  said  Mrs.  Deans.  " But  a  living  sorroAv's 
worse  than  a  dead  one,  they  say;  and  it's  turrible  when 
one's  own  flesh  and  blood  goes  wrong." 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Wilson;  "but  it's  turrible  dis- 
couragin'  when  they're  cut  down  in  the  midst  and  no  one 
can  say,  *What  doest  Thou?'  " 

Mrs.  Wilson's  tone  implied  that  there  might  be  some 


i 


% 


Mi 


^!    I 


f4^ 


^^^   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


consolation  if  she  were  permitted  to  "  talk  back"  at  the 
Lord.     Mrs.  Deans  noticed  this  and  said  warningly: 

"Don't  murmur;  whatever  you  do,  don't  murmur;  we 
can't  tell  what  a  day  may  bring  fortli.  Look  at  me,  what 
I  have  to  put  up  with — Henry  all  crippled  up  and  not  able 
to  earn  salt  for  liis  bread.  No,  don't  murmur,  whatever 
you  do." 

"I  ain't  a-murmuring,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson,  somewhat 
aggrieved.  "I'm  sure  it  ain't  Homer;  it's  his  soul  I'm 
thinking  on.  Might's  well  be  took  off  in  a  fiery  chariot  as 
killed  the  way  he  was." 

"Oh,  it's  discouragin',  I'm  bound  to  say  it  is,"  conde- 
scended Mrs.  Deans.  "  Enough  to  uike  the  ambition  out 
of  one  altogether.  I  suppose  you  haven't  heard  about  old 
Mr.  Carroll,  have  you?" 

"  Why,  \\<  said  MrSo  Wilson,  abruptly  suspending  the 
task  of  sniffling  into  her  handkerchief  under  pretence  of 
weeping.     "Why,  no;  you  don't  tell  me  he's  sick?" 

"Yes,  it  seems  ho  was  taken  last  night  with  spasms,  and 
they  say  he  might  have  died  and  no  one  been  the  wiser; 
but  one  of  that  Dedham  tribe  he  was  always  feeding  up 
came  over  to  beg  something,  and  there  he  laid  on  the 
floor." 

"Well,  for  the  land's  sake!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Wilson. 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  over  after  dinner.  I  sent  Myron  Holder 
over  to  do  what's  needed  this  morning.  They  say  the  only 
words  the  old  man's  spoke  sence  he  was  took  was  to  tell 
them  to  send  to  town  for  a  doctor." 

Here  Mrs.  Wilson  and  Mrs.  Deans  parted,  each  joining 
different  groups  and  spreading  the  news  of  Mr.  Carroll's 
seizure. 

The  women  resolved  to  go  and  see  the  ins  and  oi  ^  of 
his  house  for  themselves — sickness  is  such  an  admirable 
excuse  for  impertinent  curiosity  to  gratify  itself. 


^m^stJ^ 


THE    CS'TEMPERED   WIXD 


247 


'  at  the 

(lur;  we 
le,  what 
(lot  able 
'hatever 

mewhat 
oiil  I'm 
ariot  as 

conde- 
ion  out 
out  old 

ng  tlie 
snce  of 

IS,  and 

wiser ; 

ng  up 

m  the 

on. 

lolder 
eonly 
to  tell 

)ining 
•roll's 

its  of 
liable 


The  men  speculated  as  to  what  would  become  of  his 
property.  Thero  had  been  a  story  at  the  time  he  bought 
the  property,  some  hint  of  family  trouble,  some  whisper 
that  he  had  "money  back  of  him  ' —  a  b  izy  tale  that  he 
had  come  to  hido  from  some  sorrow  that  pursued  him. 
But  all  conjecture  was  so  vague  that,  instead  of  giving 
birth  to  any  definite  idea,  it  died  away,  only  to  be  aroused 
when  the  village  wondered  at  some  act  of  generosity  upon 
his  part. 

Old  Carroll  lived  among  them  quietly — paying  his  taxes, 
going  his  own  way  and  ex]>ressing  himself  freely  upon  every 
subject  but  his  own  affairs. 

A  week  after  his  seizure  ho  died,  and  a  lawyer's  clerk 
came  from  town  and  took  possession  of  the  house  and 
cliarge  of  the  funeral — in  very  different  fashion  from  what 
his  neighbors  expected,  for  the  body  was  taken  away  and 
sent  to  the  gre.tt  city,  which  in  their  eyes  typified  Babylon 
with  ail  its  sin  and  splendor. 

The  lawyei  's  clerk  spoke  with  much  deference  of  the 
dead  man,  and  signified  that  the  name  of  Carroll  was  high 
in  the  land ;  whereat  the  villagers  bethought  themselves 
that  they  had  entertained  an  angel  unawares,  and  were 
inclined  to  accuse  the  dead  man  of  "  doing"  them. 

Mrs.  Deans  boasted  much  of  the  intimacy  of  her  husband 
with  the  old  soldier,  and  speedily  forgot  the  latter's 
impious  sneers  at  foreign  missions. 

The  farm  was  advertised  for  sale,  and  Disney  bought  the 
land  he  had  so  long  worked  on  shares.  Disney  and  his 
family  moved  into  the  empty  house.  Conjecture  and 
interest  gradually  died  away. 

In  the  great  city  a  woman  with  brittle,  dyed  hair  and 
simpering  lips  and  powdered  throat  laughed  as,  turning, 
over  a  trunk  full  of  odds  and  ends  packed  by  the  lawyer's 
clerk,  she  came  upon  a  miniature  set  in  pearls — laughed 


f 


i     I; 


24S 


THE  UNTEAfPEklW  Wl^'V 


and  looked  at  tho  picture  long;  but  the  laugh  died  as  she 
noted  tlio  freshness  of  the  pictured  face,  (crossing  tho 
room,  she  set  the  miniature  agaiuHt  her  own  cheek  and 
leaned  close  to  a  mirror,  comparing  tlio  two.  And  pres- 
ently she  cast  tho  painting  from  her  and  iled  from  tho 
mirror  with  widened  eyes. 

"I  am  old — old!"  slio  said.  "He  is  dead,  and  I  am 
old!  It  is  this  room,  which  is  too  liglit — it  is  glaring — 
horrible!"  And  she  drew  even  closer  the  shades  of  silk, 
through  which  tho  light  shone  with  a  soft  roseate  glow. 
Then  she  searched  for  and  found  the  picture  where  it  had 
fallen  on  a  soft  rug,  and  again  went  to  the  mirror. 

But  if  tho  dimmer  light  softened  the  lines  in  her  face, 
it  gave  the  pictured  face  another  charm — the  soft  illusion 
of  mystery  and  youth.  Tho  woman  gazed  at  the  dual  re- 
flection long  until  her  breath  blurred  the  mirror,  so  that 
all  was  blotted  out  save  tho  brightness  of  the  gold  frame 
and  a  pair  of  wild,  questioning  eyes.  A  sharp  sob  parted 
her  lips,  and  the  mirror  was  empty. 

Not  long  after,  this  woman  was  found  daad.  By  her  side 
was  an  empty  bottle,  such  as  they  sell  poison  in,  and  in 
her  hand  was  a  painti'  ^  of  a  beautiful  woman  framed  in 
gold.  Those  who  found  her  said  the  picture  resembled 
her  a  little. 

But  this  was  far  away  from  Jamestown,  where  Myron 
lived  and  suffered.  That  winter  was  a  very  busy  one  for 
her.  Tender  of  touch,  strong  of  arm,  brave  of  heart, 
she  was  an  ideal  nurse.  It  is  said  a  great  grief  has  before 
now  made  a  poet  out  of  what  was  only  a  man.  Myron's 
sorrows  had  changed  her  from  a  commonplace  woman  to  a 
creature  of  most  subtle  sympathies.  The  pleading  of 
.pained  eyes  was  eloquent  to  her,  and  the  curves  of  dumb 
lips  told  her  the  tale  of  their  sufferings.  The  touch  of 
her  hand  brought  rest,  the  pressure  of  her  palms,  peace; 


'feftu  .|[i 


THE   VNTPlMPEkED  WIND 


949 


whilst  tire  infiuitc  syftipatliy  from  a  licart  that  had  itself 
been  smitten  eased  those  pangs  which,  keener  than  any 
physical  anguish,  rend  those  that  are  near  death. 

But  Myron  herself  reaped  no  blessing  of  peace  from 
these  duties.  What  a  strange  fantasy  it  is  to  dream,  as 
many  do,  that  the  occupation  of  nursing  is  one  which  heals 
a  hurt  heart  and  reconciles  yearning  hands  to  their  empti- 
ness! What  dreary  days  did  Myron  not  know!  What 
solemn,  silent  nights,  when  alone,  she  sat  at  Misery's 
banquet  and  supped  with  Sorrow — with  shame,  regret,  and 
betrayed  trust  to  hand  the  dish. 

"We  live  in  deeds,  not  years ;  in  tlioughts,  not  breaths ; 
In  feelings,  not  in  figures  on  u  dial. 
We  should  count  time  by  lieart-tlirobs.  " 

So  some  one  says ;  and,  reckoning  by  this  higher  nota- 
tion, how  many  centuries  of  weariness  had  not  Myron  lived? 
The  spring  months  came,  scarce  changed  in  sky  from  those 
of  winter,  only  the  gathering  heat  of  the  sun  sent  up 
"sorrow  from  the  ground."  Malaria,  influenza,  and 
typhoid  overspread  the  country.  The  whole  neighborhood 
was  gloomy.  The  rain  fell  day  after  day.  The  plough 
horses  splashed  through  mud,  and  the  furrows  filled  with 
water  behind  the  plough. 

Myron  had  been  working  at  a  cousin's  of  Mrs. 
Warner's,  whose  baby  was  sick  unto  death.  The  child 
died,  and  its  mother,  in  the  first  rebellion  of  grief,  had 
said  to  Myron : 

"  'Tain't  just — I  can't  think  it  is — nor  right,  neither — 
for  my  baby  to  be  taken  when  there's  so  many  left  alive  that 
ain't  any  use.  There's  old  Humphries,  and  paralytic 
Henry  Deans,  and  drunken  Ann  Lemon — what's  the  good 
of  them  to  anybody — it's  a  shame !" 

Myron  soothed  her  as  well  as  she  could,  but  she  burst 
forth  again: 


igd 


THE    UKTEMPERED  WIND 


Sf 


^ilDfcife^' 


1':!. 

' 

; 

I         1 

H    1 

"Fancy  my  child  dead!  If  it  had  heen  that  young  one 
of  yours,  now,  tliore  would  have  been  some  sense  in  it — a 
young  one  without  even  a  name — that  would  have  been  a 
good  riddance — but  mine — mine!" 

For  once  Myron's  very  soul  was  shaken  with  rage.  She 
turned  where  she  stood,  and  looked  the  other  woman  in  the 
face. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  "you  wicked,  wicked  woman!" 

The  words  carried  all  the  accusation  of  outraged  mother- 
hood in  their  tones.  The  woman  shrank  back,  and  Myron, 
taking  her  boy,  set   off  to  the  village. 

It  began  to  rain  before  they  were  half  way.  Myron's 
thoughts  turned  to  Homer.  She  never  forgot  him  for  long 
at  a  time.  It  falls  to  the  lot  of  few  to  be  so  sincerely  sor- 
rowed for. 

She  and  My  were  both  wet  through  when  they  reached 
the  cottage,  and  Myron  was  very  weary  with  the  boy's 
weight.  She  lit  the  fire,  and  My  played  about  in  the 
kitchen.  He  was  of  a  peculiarly  sunny  and  equable  dis- 
position— 

"  One  of  those  happy  souls 
Which  arc  the  salt  of  the  earth,  and  without  whom 
The  world  would  smell  like  what  it  is — a  tomb.  " 

Myron  was  glad  when  the  time  came  for  bed,  for  she 
was  utterly  weary. 

The  old  clock  on  the  wall  was  pointing  to  one  o'clock, 
when  Myron  suddenly  started  up,  wide  awake.  The 
mother  instinct,  keener  than  her  other  faculties,  had 
awakened  her,  not  the  boy.  For  the  strange,  low,  gur- 
gling sound  he  made  would  scarce  have  aroused  the  lightest 
sleeper,  and  Myron  had  been  sunk  in  the  deep  sleep  of 
exhaustion. 

In  a  moment  she  had  the  lamp  alight.  The  boy  lay,  his 
blue  eyes  wide  open,  his  round  cheeks  scarlet  with  the 


' 


r 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


251 


ling  one 

in  it — a 

been  a 

e.     She 
m  in  the 


mother- 
Myron, 

Myron's 
for  long 
rely  aor- 

reached 

le  boy's 

in   the 

ble  dis- 


for  she 

o'clock, 
.  The 
OS,  had 
w,  giir- 
lightest 
sleep  of 

Iny,  his 
ith  the 


fatal  flush  of  fever,  his  lips  swollen  and  parted  in  gasping 
respirations,  his  body  almost  rigid  with  the  efforts  he  made 
for  breath.  One  glance  showed  her  this.  The  next 
instant  she  was  undoing  the  little  nightdress  and  shirt. 
With  tremulous  haste  she  placed  some  goose-gvease  in  a 
little  tin  and  strove  to  melt  it  by  holding  it  over  the  lamp. 
The  light  was  weak  and  wavering.  She  removed  the 
chimney,  and  thrust  the  cup  into  the  flame.  Her  fingers 
scorched  till  the  skin  cracked ;  she  did  not  know  it.  Slie 
appliei  the  melted  oil  and  flew  to  wet  his  parched  lips. 
The  horrible,  croupy  cough  cut  her  to  the  heart  as  it  issued 
from  My'b  swollen  throat.  She  used  every  remedy  her 
homely  skill  suggested,  some  of  them  ellicacious  enough 
often — but  little  My  was  dying.  His  blue  eyes  were  filming ; 
his  baby  lips  twitching;  the  little  hands,  that  had  of  late 
grasped  her  fingers  so  Ih'mly  as  to  suggest  protectioM,  made 
wavering,  feeble  movements  toward  her  face  and  bosom,  or 
clutched  with  waning  strength  at  his  own  tortured  throat. 

She  knelt  beside  the  beu  She  hardly  dared  toiicii  the 
litiile  form  before  her  lest  the  mother  in  her,  which  had 
grown  fierce  in  her  dread,  should  cause  her  to  clasp  It  too 
ciose.  She  lifted  her  voice  in  prayer,  and  cried  aloud  in 
frightful  accents  of  despair,  entreaty,  expostulation,  nay, 
even  of  tlireatening.  No  prayer  more  eloquent  of  human 
agony  ever  beat  against  deaf  skies,  yet  it  was  but  the  repeti- 
tion of  one  word — " My — My!" 

An  hour  crept  by.  The  flush  had  deepened  on  My's 
cheeks;  his  eyes  were  glazed.  Once  again,  in  surpassing 
pain,  Myron  Holder  called  aloud  her  child's  name.  There 
came  no  heavenly  answer ;  but  the  true  little  heart,  beating 
so  faintly,  responded  once  more  to  the  beloved  voice. 
Little  My's  eyes  cleared  a  space  and  his  fingers  closed  round 
his  mother's. 

"  My's  raamal"    He  uttered  the  alliterative  little  babble 


J^»^\ 


252 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


in  strange,  shackled  tones.  The  woman — his  motlier — felt 
a  stricture  at  her  tliroat;  she  strove  in  vain  to  force  it  down 
as  she  answered : 

"Mama's  My." 

A  strange  change  passed  over  the  little  gray  face,  like  a 
gleam  of  sunlight  on  a  wintry  day — hardly  that — like  the 
watery  nimhus  of  the  sun  through  a  cloud.  It  was  little 
My's  last  smile. 

"Mama's  My,"  the  woman  whispered;  and,  true  to  his 
love-taught  lesson.  My  strove  to  give  the  answer,  "My's 
mama."  The  fust  word  was  articulate,  the  last  but  half- 
shajied  ere  the  stiffening  lips  were  drawn  in  the  convulsion 
which  ended  time  for  little  My. 

Over  him  "  the  eclipsing  curse  of  birth"  had  lost  its 
power. 

At  daybreak  next  morning  a  messenger  knocked  long  at 
the  door  of  the  Holder  cottage.  He  had  been  sent  in  haste 
to  summon  Myron  back  to  the  house  she  had  left  in  such 
anger  the  day  before.  Finding  he  could  get  no  response, 
he  lifted  the  latch  and  entered  the  kitchen.  It  was  empty. 
There  was  a  strong  odor  of  kerosene  oil,  and  absolute 
silence  reigned.  The  man  crossed  the  kitchen  to  an  open 
door,  and  looking  in  saw  the  bedroom.  Upon  a  little  table 
stood  a  lamp  which  had  evidently  burned  itself  out.  The 
chimney  was  off,  and  a  great  sooty  blotch  against  the  wall 
showed  how  the  wick  had  smoked.  In  a  chair  by  the  bed 
sat  Myron  Holder,  her  eyes  fixed  straight  before  her — her 
pose  rigid — her  face  pale  as  that  of  the  dead  child  she  held 
upon  her  knees. 

**  What  is  it,  Myron?"  he  gasped. 

"He's  dead,"  said  Myron,  in  the  hoarse  tones  of  one 
whose  throat  muscles  are  constrained  and  swollen. 

The  man  turned  and  made  for  Mrs.  Warner^s.  The 
cottage   soon   filled.      Myron  neither  stirred  nor   spoke. 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


SS3 


They  took  the  cliikl  and  prepared  it  for  burial.  They  told 
her  to  eat,  and  she  swallowed  the  bread  and  tea  they  placed 
before  her.  All  her  faculties  were  benumbed,  absorbed  in 
an  effort  to  realize  her  loss. 


The  little  plain  coffin  was  in  the  kitchen,  surrounded 
by  a  group  of  people  that  filled  the  room — those  who 
considered  it  part  of  a  Christian's  bounden  duty  to  attend 
funerals.  Mr.  Prew,  sent  for  by  Mrs.  Duans,  had  just 
finished  his  address.  Myron,  with  bare  head,  and  hands 
plasped  on  her  knees,  was  seated  ))y  the  coffin,  gazing  down 
at  the  face  there,  when  there  was  a  sudden  stir  at  the  door, 
ai\d  Mrs.  Wilson  pushed  herself  through  the  throng. 

"  Wait!"  she  said,  authoritatively,  to  Mr.  Muir,  who  was 
advancing  to  screw  down  the  coffin-lid.  "Wait!"  Then 
she  turned  to  Myron  Holder.  "  Listen  to  me,  Myron 
Holder,"  she  said.     "  Is  that  child  my  grandson?" 

*'  No,"  said  Myron,  rising  to  her  feet,  and  giving  a  help- 
less look  around  at  the  curious  faces  about  her. 

"What!"  said  Mrs.  AVilson.  "What,  you'll  lie  in  the 
very  face  of  your  dead  child!  Lay  your  hand  on  that 
coffin,  Myron  Holder,  and  then  tell  me  if  that  ain't 
Homer's  son!" 

Myron  sank  by  the  coffin  and  fiung  her  arms  athwart  it. 

"^e  is  not  r  she  cried.  Then  her  long  calm  gave  way, 
and  she  began  to  sob  and  cry.  "He  belongs  to  none  of 
you ;  he  is  mine — my  own  baby — my  own  child — My — My !" 

Mrs.  Wilson  left  the  house.  Mr.  Muir  put  aside  the 
clinging  arms  and  prepared  the  coffin  for  burial.  Some 
one  led  Myron  to  a  wagon  and  she  got  in. 

Mr.  Muir  was  not  free  from  fears  when  they  stopped  at 
the  paupers'  corner  of  the  graveyard.  Myron  looked 
around,  half-dazed,  when  she  alighted,  and,  advancing, 
|;ouchea  Mr.  Muir's  arm. 


254  3r//£:    UNTKMPERED   WIND 

"  Wriy  liere?"  she  asked,  pointing  to  the  oj)cu  grave. 
"Why  not  by  father?" 

"  Your  granclniother  sold  the  other  half  of  the  lot,"  said 
Mr.  Mulr  haeiily. 

Mhf  Deans  wa(.(!||p(l  the  little  scene  with  much  inward 
satiHriintloii.  Mjfinll  made  no  further  Hign,  uttered  no 
other  word.     The  coflin  was  lowered  into  the  grave. 

Mr.  I'rew  put  up  a  prayer,  in  which  petitions  for  the 
"child  of  sin"  and  the  "sinful  mother"  were  about  efjua||y 
balanced.  The  throng  departed  each  to  his  own  place. 
Old  Humphries  fdled  up  the  grave,  and  Myron  was  left 
alone. 

The  next  day  she  went  to  Mr.  Muir's  and  inquired  how 
much  she  owed  him.  He  told  her,  and  to  his  surprise  she 
paid  him  at  once.  Then  she  set  out  for  town,  along 
dreary  country  roads,  betwixt  desolate  fields,  until  she 
came  to  the  outskirts  of  the  straggling  town;  through 
these,  until  she  was  absorbed  in  the  hurrying  throng  that 
crowded  the  narrow  streets. 

It  was  very  late  when  she  returned  to  Jamestown,  and 
as  she  passed  the  Deans  place  she  encountered  Gamaliel, 
just  returning  from  some  expedition  with  his  bosom  friend. 

*'  Hullo,  Myron;  where' ve  you  been?"  he  asked. 

"I've  been  to  town,"  said  Myron,  still  in  those  strange, 
hard  tones,  and  passed  on. 

There  was  much  speculation  as  to  her  errand,  which  was 
set  at  rest  when  a  few  days  later  a  wagon  entered  ihe  little 
graveyard  and  the  men  who  came  with  it  proceeded  to  put 
np  a  tiny  white  tablet  at  the  head  of  a  new-made  grave. 
On  it  there  was  carved  only  one  word,  and  that  a  short  one — 
MY — a  word  which  in  its  brevity  and  meaning  was  not 
unsuitable  as  an  inscriptior  oy»^r  ti^a..  gave.  Myron  had 
spent  the  last  penny  of  her  pai^ivi  yp.vii'^i;  in  marking  the 
^ot  where  her  child  la^ .  «»    r 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND  355 

'*  Let  grief  be  her  own  mistress  still. 
81ie  love  til  her  own  anguish  deep 
More  than  niiieh  pleasure.     Let  her  will 
Be  clone— to  weep  or  not  to  weep.  " 

So  says  the  hnmanest  of  our  poets;  but  such  luxurious 
grieviug  is  for  those  who  fare  delicately  and  live  in  kings' 
courts.  Myron  Jlolder  inul  lier  bread  to  earn— her  feet 
were  tied  to  the  treadmill  of  toil. 

So  she  fariBd  forth  on  her  journey  as  best  she  might;  and 
then,  and  for  long  after,  Jamestown  women  told  how  Myron 
JTolder  perjured  herself  with  her  hand  on  her  dead  child's 

IM.IIIll 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  When  some  beloved  voleo,  that  was  to  you 
*  Botli  so  rid  and  sweetness,  faileth  suddenly, 

And  silence,  ixgil\mi  which  yo(/  /f^fe  not  cry, 
Aches  round  you  like  a  .stro////  /Ijscase  and  M'w— 
What  !iope?    What  help?     Wiy;it  music  will  undo 
That  siie/jrr  fo  your  sen.sc/" 

"I'll  tell  you,  hopeless  grief  is  i)&MiffAf^m.  " 

It  was  the  season  of  the  half-yearly  revivaf  meetings  in 
Jamestown.  The  little  Methodist  Church  filled  rapidly. 
There  was  a  soup(;on  of  plea^^urable  excitement  about  a 
revival  which  was  very  enticing  to  the  youth  of  James- 
town. Besides,  all  the  "  stiddy"  young  men  were  expected 
to  go,  and  they  always  did  what  w^w  expected  of  them. 

Mrs.  Deans  camt  in  witli  the  minister,  her  face,  with 
its  self-important  expression,  irradiated  with  the  glow  of 
Bj)iritiiul  as  well  as  worldly  well  boin^.     She  had  proffere.^ 


y 


<   f     i 


256 


r//E   UNTEMPERED   WIND 


i 


lier  bid  for  the  company  of  tlu  officiating  ministers  in  good 
season,  and  the  first  of  them  had  been  knocked  down  to 
her  in  consequence,  much  to  tlie  chagrin  of  the  Mesdames 
White,  AVilson,  Disney,  and  the  rest,  for  they  knew  that 
the  second  minister  on  the  list  was  an  old  personal  friend 
of  Mrs.  Deans  and  would  doubtless  elect  to  stay  at  her 
house;  thus  they  would  have  no  opportunity  to  display 
their  pious  zeal  and  forehanded  housekeeping. 

Mrs.  Deans'  self-complacency  was  veiled,  but  not  ob- 
scured, by  an  anxious  air,  as  who  should  say,  "  I  am  not 
free  of  responsibility  if  all  does  not  go  off  well." 

It  is  a  weakness  of  such  women  to  consider  themselves 
divinely  appointed  judges  of  the  souls  of  their  neighbors 
and  friends. 

The  minister  with  her  was  pretty  well  hidden  among  the 
cluster  of  men  and  women  to  whom  Mrs.  Deans  was  intro- 
ducing him.  She  introduced  him  with  discrimination, 
however.  She  did  not  propose  giving  any  one  the  chance 
of  prefixing  a  remark  with  "  The  other  night  when  I  was 
speaking  to  Mr.  Hardman,"  or  "Mr.  Hardman  said  to  me 
the  other  day,"  unless  she  felt  quite  sure  the  recipient  of 
the  honor  was  worthy  of  it. 

But  to  her  consternation,  Mr.  Hardman  broke  bounds, 
passed  the  confines  of  the  little  group  of  important  church 
members,  and  went  out  from  one  to  another  of  the  men 
and  women,  picking  out,  with  the  unerring  divination  of  a 
man  whose  heart  is  in  sympathy  with  the  sorrows  ratlier 
than  the  joys  cf  mankind,  the  oldest,  most  forlorn,  most 
miserable-looking  of  his  prospective  hearers. 

To  see  the  ministe."  thus  throwing  away  the  apostolic 
benediction  of  his  smile  upon  old  Ann  Lemon  and  Clem 
Humphries  whilst  Mrs  White  stood  with  uplifted  nose  in 
the  doorway,  unnoticec,  was  an  unholy  thing,  more  partic- 
ularlj  as  Mrs,  White,  willing  to  bftve  hei'  dispomfiture 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


857 


in  good 
lowu  to 
jsdames 
}W  tliat 
friend 
at  her 
display 

not  ob- 
am  uot 

mselves 
iglibors 

ong  the 
,s  intro- 
ination.^ 
chance 
m  I  was 
i  to  me 
)ient  of 

bounds, 
cliurch 
he  men 
ion  of  a 
I  ratlier 
n,  most 

postolic 

d   Clem 

nose  in 

partic- 

wfiture 


shared  by  some  one  else,  turned  to  Mrs.   Deans  with  a 
surprised  air,  and  said : 

"  Why,  I  thought  the  minister  was  with  you?" 

"So  he  is,"  Mrs.  Deans  was  fain  to  avow.  "We  came 
a  xew  minutes  ago.  He  is  great  on  missions,  I  think,  and 
young."  The  latter  half  of  her  sentence  was  given  in  the 
tone  of  a  hostess  who  excuses  a  guest.  For  the  rest,  it  is 
probable  that  both  ladies  regarded  his  present  occupation  as 
distinctly  a  missionary  effort. 

Presently  the  minister  straightened  himself  and  pro- 
ceeded up  the  aisle  to  the  platform.  Mrs.  Deans'  expres- 
sion changed  from  an  anxious,  proprietary  one  to  one  of 
spiritualized  commiseration.  Was  the  misguided  man 
actually  going  to  begin  service  without  asking  one  word 
about  the  ordinarv  routine  of  services  in  Jamestown 
Methodist  Church?     If  so,  he  would  make  a  line  hash  of  it. 

Besides  she  had  not  informed  him  that  a  collection  was 
to  be  taken  up  to  defray  the  cost  of  extra  lighting,  etc., 
and  she  had  promised  Mr.  White  at  class-meeting  to  do 
so.  She  had  thought  of  telling  Mr.  Hardman,  but  pre- 
ferred waiting  until  the  minister  sought  for  information 
before  imparting  it.  His  opportunity  for  that  was  now 
past,  unless,  indeed,  he  descended  from  the  platform  to  do 
so.  A  pleasing  thrill,  inspired  by  this  idea,  turned  to  a 
chill  as  she  saw  Mr.  Hardman  take  from  his  pocket  a  well- 
thumbled  and  shabby  little  Testament,  and,  opening  it, 
seem  to  find  a  place.  Then  he  laid  it  down,  open,  upon 
the  big  church  Bible,  and  rose  to  pray. 

Mrs.  Deans'  expression  of  anxiety  was  now  unalleviated 
by  any  spiritual  exaltation;  it  was  unvariegated  gloom. 
Any  man  who  could  disregard  the  gilt  edges,  thick  covers, 
and  ornate  binding  of  that  book,  and  leave  it  closed 
whilst  he  read  from  what  her  experienced  eye  told  her  was 
a  Bible  Society  Testament  that  probably  cost  ten  cents,  >yo8 


258 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


fi  ! 


« 


certainly  in  need  of  anxious  watching.  Nor  was  it  to  be 
supposed  that  a  discourse  begun  upon  lines  like  these  would 
be  productive  of  much  good.  How  many  sermons  she  had 
heard  rounded  off  by  the  banging  of  those  covers  together! 
How  many  final  injunctions  had  been  given  a  dramatic  and 
artistic  interest  by  the  holding  of  that  book,  half-open, 
ready  to  put  a  period  to  the  peroration  by  a  sanctified  thud ! 

Well — Mrs.  Deans  sighed  audibly. 

Mr.  Hardman  began  to  read  in  a  deep  and  sympathetic 
voice.  He  was  a  tall  man,  of  twenty-eight,  muscularly 
built,  but  not  brawny;  his  studies  had  been  too  close  to 
admit  of  that.  Ho  had  square  shoulders,  rather  higher 
than  they  should  be,  and  rounded  with  the  stoop  that  the 
^cholar  and  the  ploughman  share.  His  hands,  as  he  raised 
them  in  infrequent  gestures,  were  seen  to  be  rather  broad 
and  short-  hauilri,  it  would  seem,  (if  a  moelianlo,  but  not 
toil-HtaiuiMl.  Indeed,  their  whitetirss  m  ill  iignu-d  willi 
their  shape  that  a  sense  of  something  in(3ongruou8  forced 
itself  upon  one  when  looking  ii(  them.  His  hair  was 
almost  blaek,  and  was  tossed  anci  disarninged  by  iiis  habit 
of  running  his  fingers  through  it.     His  face  was  pale. 

His  brow  Avas  sqiuire  and  overhiVM^ing  -of  the  ])ent- 
hoitHo  order,  rather  forblihliug;  the  brow  inherited  from  a 
generation  of  tollers,  men  who,  friuu  their  own  bleak 
corner  of  the  world,  looked  forth  at  the  panorama  of  life 
with  sombre  eyoM,  Intrenching  themselves  behind  a  barrier 
of  silent  endurance,  concealing  their  weakness,  their 
wantg,  their  hopoK  »tnd  fears,  their  few  joys  and  pitiful 
ambitiouH  behind  an  impenetrable  mask,  until  it  would 
seem  that  their  linearrii^nts  adjusted  themselves  to  their 
mental  attitudes;  and  i\\\%^  their  son,  presented  to  the 
world  this  square  brow,  strong,  secret,  sad.  Bat  its  stern- 
ness, and  alas!  a  great  deal  of  its  strength,  was  negatived 
by  the  eyes  which  looked  out  from  beneath  it.     V^erj  dark- 


THE   UNTEMPERED  fVjJVD 


259 


gray  these  eyes  were,  and  made  eloquent  by  the  expression 
of  infinite  love  and  sympathy  for  his  kind;  but  their  dilat- 
ing pupils  evidenced  an  emotional  nature,  and  they  were 
somewhat  too  soft  for  a  man.  Yet,  looking  in  steady 
kindness  at  the  world,  they  often  seemed  fit  eyes  for  a 
strong,  culm  soul. 

But  Philip  Iliirdman  felt  himself  neither  calm  nor 
strong.  As  he  looked  upon  the  expectant  faces  of  those 
before  him,  the  doubt  which  was  gnawing  at  the  heart- 
strings of  belief  suddenly  seemed  to  grip  his  own  heart 
and  brain  and  threaten    11  oh. 

He  had  no  message  to  give  these  people!  What  were 
they  there  for?  Was  it  not  all  a  myth  and  a  delusion? 
Was  it? 

Then  he  broke  the  spell  which  held  him,  and  his  words 
rushed  forth.  His  congregation  stirred  and  swayed  and 
yielded — not  to  pernuasion,  for  of  that  there  was  none;  not 
to  the  minister's  personality,  for  they  had  forgotten  him; 
not  in  the  hope  of  reward,  for  he  spoke  but  of  wrath  and 
pitiless  requital  of  sin,  and  merciless  judgment,  and 
nfMllfRS  woe — they  yielded  to  their  own  fears. 

\fi\V  I  Ills  man  ^vas  lashing  his  own  soul  with  the  copy- 
ri^lihiil  inv<)(il,iv()  of  his  sect,  pronouncing  against  isimself 
and  (as  in  the  midHl.  of  his  mental  agony  ho  realized) 
HgHJMHt  all  mankind  a  doom  of  woe  iind  wratli  if  they  di^ 
not  believe.  Ho  strove  to  f<friify  his  own  soul  int^)  the 
submission  It  doniod,  and  strove  to  awaken  in  th<«  \mi\Ae 
before  him  a  reflex  of  the  emotion  lie  fain  would  foi'l. 
They  responded  to  his  words,  but  not  to  his  feeling.  They 
wept  and  abased  ih^mmlsufk  bocauae  of  the  fear,  not  because 
fcl^^y  feared  unbelief. 

Oold    drops  tricklexl  down    Mrs.   Deans'  face  Ufid   bo 
dabbled  her  second-best  bonnet-strings.     Mrs.  Wilson  grew 
almost  hysterical.     Ann   Ij^mon  wondered  vaguely  if  she 


r  11 


II   i ! 

; 


fl 


fi    i 

I;    I    : 

I:       I 


260 


TirE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


had  "  the  horrors,"  and  hohl  on  to  the  pew  with  both  hands, 
whilst  she  looked  about  her  with  bewildered,  lack-lustre 
eyes.  Clem  Humphries  sat  outwardly  unmoved,  but  in- 
wardly vowing  if  he  "  once  got  out  of  this  he'd  never  be 
wheedled  into  a  revival  meeting  again." 

The  younger  men  thought  revival  meetings  "  no  slouch," 
as  Gamaliel  Deans  expressed  it;  and,  comparing  the  ex- 
citement with  that  of  a  cock-fight  he  had  attended  suh 
rosa  in  the  old  brewery,  he  decided  in  favor  of  the  revival. 

The  minister's  voice  failed  and  faltered.  Like  all 
magnetic  natures,  his  exhausted  itself.  He  paused,  looked 
at  the  men  and  women  before  him,  and,  realizing  the  shal- 
lowness of  their  facile  emotions,  felt  the  pall  of  self-disgust 
envelop  his  soul.  A  horrible  contempt  for  himself  and 
them,  even  for  the  religi  1  that  had  inspired  this  mental 
debauch,  overwhelmed  him.  He  shuddered  as  he  realized 
the  impiousness  of  his  own  thought,  left  the  platform,  went 
swiftly  down  the  aisle  and  out  into  the  darkness. 

Mr.  White  closed  the  meeting,  and  prayed  enthusiasti- 
cally for  the  "young  brother  who  had  so  awakened  them," 
and  ended  amid  a  chorus  of  ejaculations. 

Mrs.  Deans,  finding  herself  so  agreeably  disappointed, 

went  home  content.     She  wished  to-morrow  night  were 

come.     What  crises  of  emotion  might  not  be  expected  then ! 

She  found  Mr.   Hardman  pacing  the  veranda  slowly,  his 

brow  bare  to  the  stars;   his  frame  was   relaxed  and  weary, 

his  eyes  tired.    He  refused  any  refreshment,  and  long  into 

the  night  Mrs.  Deans  heard  him  pacing  back  and  forth. 
.  •  •  •  '  •  •  • 

Another  night  had  come,  and  Philip  Hardman  was 
again  to  stand  before  an  assembly  of  his  fellows  and  voice 
the  truths  they  held  eternal.  Mrs.  Deans  had  no  doubts 
now  as  to  his  competency.  She  anticipated  an  exciting 
struggle  with  spiritual  foes,  and  the  better  to  gird  herself 


rni:    UNTEMJ'EftED  WIND 


261 


nted, 
were 
hen ! 
his 
eary, 
into 
h. 


for  the  fray,  went  early,  leaving  Mr.  llanlnum  (o  follow. 
She  fiiltthis  implied  a  delicate  eoniplimeiit  to  the  preacher, 
recognizing  in  it  a  sunulacrum  of  John  the  Baptist's  mis- 
sion in  the  wilderness. 

So  Philip  lljirdrniin  was  left  to  walk  the  mile  from  the 
Deans  farm-house  to  the  village  alone.  It  was  evening — 
late  evening  in  snmmer.  The  air  was  lilled  with  that  in- 
definite, receptive  nnirmnrthe  earth  gives  forth  as  it  opens 
its  pores  to  the  dew.  Without  wind,  there  was  yet  a  sense 
of  motion  in  the  atmosplh  re,  at  once  calming  and  exhilarat- 
ing. It  brought  a  keen  sense  of  the  fact  that  the  world  is 
rushing  through  space,  with  ith  |)uny  burden  of  men  and 
their  works.  The  sun  hii<i  set,  but  the  western  skv  was 
radiant  with  an  amber  afterglow,  against  which  the  tree- 
tops  in  Mr.  Deans'  woodland  showed  a  mass  of  dark,  bil- 
lowy green,  the  light  behind  them  intensifying  the  depth 
of  their  color,  so  that  they  showed  sombrely  against  the  sky. 

Before  him  stretched  the  dusty  road,  the  grass  at  either 
side  parched  by  the  heat;  now  and  then  a  maple  over- 
shadowed him;  now  and  then  he  startled  nested  birds  from 
out  the  low-growing  trees  of  the  wild  plum.  He  walked 
swiftly,  tl  e  grasshoi)pers  and  little  whirring  insects  and 
dragon-flies  flitting  about  his  path. 

At  a  turn  in  the  road,  where  Mr.  Deans'  land  joined 
Mr.  White's,  was  wedged  in  the  little  cemetery  of  James- 
town. It  was  fenced  with  sharp-pointed  palings,  over 
which  the  native  virgin  bower  clematis  clung  in  feathery 
festoons,  just  blossoming  out  in  fragile  greenish -white 
flowers.  Within,  he  saw  the  untidy  graves  and  inebriated 
gravestones  of  a  country  churchyard.  Those  slanting 
stones  and  graves,  almost  obliterat^^d  by  masses  of  peri- 
winkle and  white-leaved  balm  and  ribbon  grass,  appealed 
to  him  strongly. 

lie  looked  at  his  watch.     He  had  started  in.  fair  time. 


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"but,  lost  in  thought,  had  walked  rery  quickly,  fife  fiaci 
time  to  linger  a  few  minutes  here.  Perhaps  amid  tlie 
graves  of  Jamestown's  dead  he  might  learn  the  open  sesame 
to  the  hearts  of  the  living. 

He  entered  through  a  gap  in  the  palings,  pushing  his 
way  through  a  little  thicket  of  thorny  locust  bushes  that 
had  sprung  up  in  a  scattered  cluster.  The  graves  were 
nearly  all  marked  by  gravestones.  In  Jamestown  it  was 
considered  a  mark  of  respectability  to  erect  a  memorial  to 
one's  dead,  but  this  done,  all  care  for  their  graves  ceased. 
Philip  Hardman  wandered  about,  noting  the  weather-beaten 
grayness  of  the  older  stones  and  reading  their  inscriptions 
almost  mechanically.  One  broad,  thin  slab,  with  a  weep- 
ing-willow  sculptured  upon  it,  bore  a  legend  in  memory  of 
"Amelia  Warner,  beloved  wife  of  Josiah  "Warner,  aged 
sixteen  years."  Poor  little  wife!  In  the  fifty  years  of  her 
rest  her  grave  had  sunken  almost  level  with  the  path ;  the 
lichen  on  the  stone  was  striving  to  obliterate  her  name 
there,  even  as  it  had  been  long  ago  forgotten  upon  earth. 
A  wild  hawthorn  bush  was  springing  from  under  one 
corner  of  her  tombstone  and  tilting  it  over  perilously. 

Some  of  the  more  recent  graves  had  odd  little  jingles  of 
original  rhyme  carven  upon  their  stone?.  One,  of  but  a 
year  before,  bore  the  brief  prayer,  too  human  for  its 
glistening  coldness,  "  Meet  me  in  Heaven. "  Hardman  read 
the  name  on  this  grave  with  a  little  start — "Jennie  Best, 
wife  of  William  Best."  Yesterday  Mrs.  Deans  had  pointed 
out  William  Beat  and  his  new-made  bride.  How  futile 
and  absurd  the  little  legend  seemed !  But  Jennie  Best  slept 
as  securely  and  as  sweetly  as  though  her  husband  still  cher- 
ished in  his  inmost  heart  these  last  words  of  hers  and 
walked  as  though  he  hoped  to  realize  them,  instead  of 
writing  them  upon  her  tombstone  and  marrying  within  a 
year  of  her  death. 


^■i  i|v 


Ttm  uNTEMPEkED  m/zr^ 


ibS 


e  had 
d  the 
sesame 

ng  his 
3S  that 
s  were 
it  was 
)rial  to 
ceased, 
•beaten 
iptions 
t  weep- 
nory  of 
.,  aged 
of  her 
;h;  the 
name 
earth, 
er  one 

y- 

igles  of 
but  a 
or  its 
an  read 
Best, 
jointed 
futile 
st  slept 
1  cher- 
rs  and 
;ead  of 
ithin  a 


There  were  graves  of  old  and  young  in  this  little  church- 
yard— men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  infants  of  days,  and 
men  of  many  years.  Beneath  one  stone  slept  seven  friends, 
who  "perished  ir  the  yacht  Foam  oQ  the  coast" — a  nar- 
row space,  truly,  for  seven  to  occupy,  set  in  this  out-of-the- 
way  village;  seven  such  as  these  who  had  hoped  to  fill  great 
places  in  the  world  before  their  liver,  were  laughed  out  by 
the  little  ripples  of  the  lake. 

The  shadows  lengthened.  Gleaming  through  the  dusk, 
Hardman  noticed  a  white  stone  with  gilt  lettering. 
"Homer  Wilson"  was  the  name  it  bore,  but  it  meant 
nothing  to  the  preacher;  only  he  sighed  as  he  noted  the 
age  of  the  man  sleeping  there,  and  a  half-env;ous  thought 
crossed  him,  as  he  looked  around,  that  "  these  had  com- 
pleted their  journey. " 

Philip  Hardman  turned  his  steps  to  the  road  again,  but 
he  paused  yet  once  more.  Close  undei  the  shadow  of  the 
high  stone  wall  which  bounded  the  graveyard  on  the  village 
side,  he  almost  stumbled  over  a  woman's  figure,  which,  in 
the  deepening  gloom,  he  had  not  observed.  She  was  almost 
prone  beside  a  little  mound  whereon  the  sods  had  not  yet 
taken  root.  The  woman's  arms  were  outstretched  toward 
the  grave — almost  embraced  it.  Her  whole  attitude  spoke 
eloquently  of  a  hopeless  and  passive  despair. 

Hardman  stopped  a  moment  irresolutely;  she  had  not 
observed  him. 

"You  are  in  great  trouble,"  he  said,  bending  down  and 
touching  her  shoulder. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  raising  her  head  without  a  start. 
"Yes." 

Her  voice  was  painfully  constrained.  The  words  seemed 
to  issue  with  difficulty,  and  the  tones  were  harsh.  Speech 
seemed  strangely  dissonant  with  the  hour  and  place.  Her 
mute  despair  seemed  the  only  fitting  emotion  for  the  scene. 


III! 


i    I 


THE   UNTEMPERED   WIND 

Her  eyes,  from  out  a  pallid  face,  looked  up  at  liiin,  filmed 
by  misery.  Her  cheeks  were  hollowed  in  delicate  shadows. 
Her  pale  lips  drooped.  She  seemed  the  Mourning  Spirit 
of  the  place. 

"Come  and  pray,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  with  infinite 
pity  in  his  kind  eyes.     "  Come,"  he  urged. 

He  waited  for  her  reply,  but  none  came.  She  was  sit- 
ting by  the  grave  now,  her  hands  locked  round  her  knees, 
her  eyes  looking  hungrily  into  vacancy  and  seeing  neither 
hope  nor  recompense  for  her  pain. 

A  bat  held  its  angled  flight  past  them.  He  roused  him- 
self to  a  sense  of  time.  He  looked  down  upon  the  woman 
at  his  feet,  r.n  expression  of  inefl'able  compassion  lit  his 
face ;  then  he  turned  to  go. 

As  his  eyes  left  that  pallid  face  the  scene  seemed  to 
darken  suddenly.  He  realized  the  lateness  of  the  hour, 
and,  finding  his  way  out  of  the  graveyard,  strode  rapidly  to 
the  church. 

After  all,  he  was  in  time — indeed,  had  a  few  minutes  to 
spare.  He  did  not,  however,  again  shock  Mrs.  Deans  by 
n  promiscuous  friendliness.  He  went  straight  to  the  plat- 
form and  sat  down  behind  the  reading-desk.  His  :;hougnts 
reverted  to  the  woman  whom  he  had  just  seen,  and  he 
felt  he  ought  to  have  made  a  more  eloquent  appeal  to  her 
to  come  to  church.  Mental  habit  led  him  to  decide  at 
once  that  prayer  was  the  only  efficacious  care  for  grief 
such  as  hers.  It  was  thus  with  this  man  always.  In 
calm  moments,  when  all  went  well  with  him,  he  strove  to 
elucidate  those  problems  of  reason  and  right  which  pre- 
sented themselves  to  him  in  season  and  out  of  season — 
strove  to  live  a  life  of  austei3  truth  without  factitious  aid  of 
self-delusion,  without  hope  of  ultimate  reward. 

But  in  times  of  distress  or  pain,  whether  his  own  or  others', 
h^  turned  again  to  his  old  beliefs,  and  prayer  appealed  to 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


265 


filmed 
ladows. 
;  Spirit 

infinite 

was  sit- 

i'  knees, 

neither 

;ed  liim- 
>  woman 
I  lit  his 

emed  to 
le  hour, 
apidly  to 

nntes  to 
)eans  by 
he  plfit- 
h  on  gilts 
and  he 
al  to  her 
ecide  at 
for  grief 
lys.      In 
strove  to 
lich  pre- 
season— 
)us  aid  of 

r  others', 
)ealed  to 


him  as  the  only  panacea.  Orthodox  folk  plead  this  as  a 
triumphant  and  sure  vindication  of  the  truth  of  their 
creeds.  It  may  be  in  some  cases,  but  in  Philip  Hardman's 
it  was  only  the  result  of  inherent  weakness  of  will  and 
vacillating  decision,  and,  alas!  a  cowardly  shrinking  from 
mental  torture.  Face  to  face  with  grief  such  as  this 
woman's,  he  could  not  bear  to  look  the  inevitability  of 
such  bereavements  in  the  face;  could  not  endure  to  think 
of  the  irreparable  loss  of  a  vanished  life;  could  not  calmly 
lecognize  one  single  instance  of  what  he  was  ever  mourn- 
ing over — the  sadness  and  futility  of  life. 

He  must  hallow  each  blow  as  a  "  merciful  dispensation;" 
muffle  it  from  prying  eyes  with  the  tabooed  veil  of  "sacred 
predestination";  set  it  beyond  close  scrutiny  by  asserting 
to  himself  the  impiety  of  questioning  "divine  will";  and 
at  such  times  the  beauty  of  his  solacing  faith  lit  in  his 
soul  fresh  fervor  for  the  cause. 

For  a  few  moments  Philip  Ilardman  sat  motionless. 
The  hands  of  the  clock  reached  the  hour  for  service  to 
begin,  ilis  audience  settled  themselves  in  the  pews  and 
stilled  themselves  to  attention, 

Mrs,  Deans  ostentatiously  ceased  her  whispered  remarks 
to  Mrs.  Wilson,  straightened  herself  in  her  seat,  looked 
about  with  a  critical  and  judicial  eye,  and  then,  con- 
vinced that  all  was  well,  hemmed  several  tim.es  expectantly. 

Philip  Hardman  rose,  and,  in  brief  words,  asked  for 
Divine  guidance  through  the  service.  He  ceased.  The 
bowed  heads  were  raised.  He  was  about  to  begin  the 
reading  of  the  Scriptures,  when,  silently,  slowly,  Myron 
Holder  entered  the  open  door  and,  advancing  only  to  the 
nearest  seat,  which  happened  to  oe  in  the  farthest  back 
pew,  sat  down.  So  quiet  were  her  movements  that,  save  by 
a  few  of  the  young  men  who  had  taken  the  rear  seats  the 
better  to  observe  the  antics  of  the  elect,  she  was  unobserved. 


HI 


) 


1 1 


266 


TUE  UNTEMPERED  WWD 


Philip  Ilardman,  however,  had  seen  her.  He  changed 
his  intention  of  reading,  and  announced  a  hymn  instead. 
He  wanted  a  few  minutes  to  familiarize  himself  with  that 
tragic  face  before  attempting  to  utter  any  message  of  love 
or  hope  to  the  woman  who  had  thus  obeyed  his  suggestion. 
While  the  singing  went  on  he  looked  at  his  audience,  and, 
in  a  flash,  their  narrow,  sordid,  often  miserabb  lives 
seemed  revealed  to  him.  These  were  the  people  he  had 
lashed  with  spiritual  fears  the  night  before.  As  he 
recalled  it,  his  heart  smote  him  witii  terrible  reproach. 
His  eyes  grew  dim  as  he  looked  at  the  pt-ople  before  him 
and  saw,  shining  through  their  midst,  the  pallid  face  of 
Myron  Holder. 

By  what  strange  chance  had  this  woman  come  to  James- 
town? For  he  decided  at  once  she  was  no  native  of  the 
village.  Th J  purely  cut,  martyr  face ;  the  broad  brow, 
sensitive  lips,  and  cameo-like  nostrils  were  too  utterly 
unlike  the  other  faces  in  tho  church  to  be  for  one  moment 
associated  with  them. 

There  came  to  him  a  fantastic  thought,  that  this  woman 
was  sent  to  bear  the  griefs  of  this  village,  even  as  One 
long  since — the  Carpenter's  Son — had  borne  the  griefs  of 
the  world  and  become  a  "  Man  of  Sorrows  and  acquainted 
with  grief."  But  alas!  this  woman  had  no  divine  mes- 
sage to  give ;  instead,  she  was  wandering  in  the  wilderness 
of  hopeless  despair.  But — and  Hardman's  hand  tightened 
on  nis  Testament — a  message  she  should  have. 

"  Other  refuge  have  I  none, 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee. 
Leave,  oh,  leave  nic  not  alone ! 
Oh,  protect  and  comfort  me !" 

So  they  sang.     Philip  Hardman  found  his  place — 

"  All  my  hopes  on  Thee  are  stayed, 
All  ray  wants  to  Thee  I  bring ; 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


367 


changed 
instead, 
itli  that 
}  of  love 
forestion. 

so 

ice,  and, 
!>b  lives 
5  he  had 
As  he 
ceproach. 
if  ore  him 
d  face  of 

to  James- 
ive  of  the 
)ad  brow, 
utterly 
e  moment 

lis  woman 
n  as  One 
griefs  of 
acquainted 
vine  mes- 
wilderness 
tightened 


Cover  my  defenceless  licad 
With  the  shadow  of  Tliy  wing.  " 

Rapt  in  an  infinite  sorrow  for  his  kind — inspired  by  the 
need  of  this  woman  of  help — exaked  by  the  dependence 
and  confidence  expressed  in  tlie  hymned  words — seeing 
in  all  his  audience  but  one  pallid  face — Philip  Ilardman 
rose  to  speak. 

This  choosing  of  a  subject  upon  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
to  meet  the  needs  of  on 3  woman,  was  no  disadvantage  to 
him,  for  he  was  a  fluent  and  ready  speaker,  and  his  whole 
training  had  been  that  spontaneity  was  absolutely  essen- 
tial. He  liad  none  of  the  measured  method  that  develops 
a  subject  into  "three  hcad&  and  an  application."  The 
evangelistic  sect  to  which  he  belonged  abjures  notes,  j^nd 
hops  along  to  the  halting  cadence  of  a  quasi-inspiration. 

Happily,  however,  it  has  now  and  then  a  man  like 
Philip  Hardman,  whose  words  flow  freely  forth,  and  never 
so  eloquently  as  when  heart  and  sympathies  are  touched. 
Hardman  was  never  at  a  loss  for  words  of  his  own  to  trans- 
late his  feelings  into  language ;  but  this  night  his  sermon 
was  but  the  enunciation  of  a  sweet  and  comforting  doc- 
trine uttered  in  the  language  of  the  Book  which  has  pre- 
served it. 

"  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest,"  he  said,  and  held  out  as  a  free 
gift  the  inestimable  boon  of  peace.  "  I  will  not  leave  you 
comfortless,"  uttered  in  his  vibrant  tones,  bore  the  assur- 
ance of  divinest  aid.  "Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled," 
he  voiced  as  a  sacred  command  to  cease  from  grief,  and 
then  the  general  invitation,  "  Let  whosoever  will  drink  of 
the  water  of  life  freely." 

With  these  words  as  a  thesis,  a  human  heart  to  be  com- 
forted, a  soul  alight  with  belief  and  confidence,  a  rare 
natural  eloquence  to  frame  his  plea — was  there  any  won- 


368 


THE   UNTEMPEKED  WIND 


\\\\{ 


der  that  the  sermon  was  effective  any  wonder  that  to  the 
Wx^ary  heart  of  the  listening  woman  it  appealed  almost 
irresistibly? 

Perhaps  Philip  Ilardinan  dwelt  too  exclusively  upon  the 
blessings  of  his  religion,  ignored  too  utterly  the  thorn  in 
the  crown — offered  it  too  freely,  avowed  it  too  confidently. 
But  what  will  you?  Even  the  greatest  purists  in  religious 
faith  find  it  hard  to  disabuse  their  minds  of  the  idea  that 
martyrdom  means  and  merits  the  Kingdom,  and  Philip 
llardman's  theology  was  not  of  the  sternest  sort. 

He  felt,  somehow,  that  this  woman  had  suffered  enough  to 
win  Heaven,  whether  she  merited  it  in  other  respects  or 
not.  So  he  set  himself  to  present  his  faith  to  her  in  the 
most  glowing  aspect,  always  seconding  his  message  with 
his  eyes. 

Just  as  Philip  Hardman  saw  but  one  face  in  his  audi- 
ence, so  Myron  Holder  was,  after  the  first  few  moments, 
unconscious  of  any  other  presence  save  his.  Her  eyes  had 
won  a  straight  path  to  his  face  between  the  heads  and 
shoulders,  and  her  gaze  never  faltered.  There  was  a  tall, 
white-shaded  lamp  on  each  side  of  the  desk.  As  she 
looked,  his  figure,  in  strong  relief  against  the  light-blue 
background  of  the  walls,  seemed  to  absorb  and  ladiate 
the  light.  It  was  simply  an  ordinary  optical  effeci,,  and 
Myron  Holder  herself  recognized  vaguely  that  it  was  "  only 
the  light,"  and  yet  that  pale  irradiation  around  his  head 
seemed  to  add  a  dignity  and  sanctity  to  the  man  and  lend 
his  utterance  a  deeper,  higher  import. 

Her  eyes  never  left  his  face — that  kind,  weak  face,  so 
full  of  contradictions,  whose  beetling  brow  seemed  ready 
to  do  battle  for  his  Faith,  whose  lips  quivered  with  the 
feeling  in  his  own  voice.  ' 

Her  eyes  were  hot  and  dilated  from  the  long  strain 
3y.h.en^  wiUi  hands  uprais.ed  above  the  standing  people,  he 


THE    UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


269 


X  to  the 
almost 

pon  the 
thorn  in 
ifidcntly. 
religions 
idea  that 
d  Philip 

snonghto 
aspects  or 
tier  in  the 
sage  with 

his  audi- 
1  moments, 
eyes  had 
heads  and 
was  a  tall, 
As  she 
light-blue 
d  ladiate 
iffeCi,,  and 
was  "  only 
his  head 
and  lend 

Ik  face,  so 
jed  ready 
with  the 

)iig  strain 
I  people,  he 


r 


uttered  the  benediction,  "  Peace  1  leave  with  you.  My 
peace  I  give  unto  you;  not  as  tlie  world  givoth  give  I  unto 
you.  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled,  neither  let  it  bo 
afraid.     Amen." 

Philip  Hardmau  descended  from  the  platform  and  strove 
to  make  his  way  toward  Myron,  but  he  was  hemmed  in 
by  outstretched  hands,  and  had  to  make  his  way  slowly 
through  a  throng,  all  eager  to  say  "Good-bye,"  for  he  left 
on  the  morrow.  Myron  was  just  stepping  out  of  the  shel- 
ter of  the  porch  wh^n  he  overtook  her.  He  held  out  his 
hand,  which  she  took,  her  own  toil-hardened  one  trem- 
bling in  the  clasp  of  his  softer  fingers.  He  looked  down 
at  her  and  spoke  with  grer.t  gentleness: 

"Did  you  take  the  message  I  gave  you  to-night?" 

"  Is  it  for  me?"  she  asked. 

"Surely,"  he  answered. 

"  You  do  not  know  me ;  you  cannot  tell.  If  you  knew" 

"Whosoever  will,"  he  replied,  with  steady  emphasis. 
And  in  his  heart  he  marvelled  at  the  humbleness  of  this 
woman,  whose  candid  brow  and  clear  eyes  bespoke  her  life. 

Then,  the  man  mii^gling  with  the  priest  in  him,  he 
continued,  still  more  gently: 

"The  message  is  even  to  the  greatest  sinner.  To  see  you 
is  to  know  you  have  the  right  of  one  of  the  least." 

She  put  up  two  hands,  clasped  in  miserable  deprecation ; 
her  cheeks  flamed  red  an  instant,  then  paled  to  a  ghastly 
white;  she  turned  silently,  and  swiftly  went  down  two 
steps  of  the  broad  entrance  stair;  then  pausing  and  look- 
ing back  at  him  with  a  gaze  such  as  one  might  fix  upon  the 
flames  before  he  steps  into  them,  she  said  clearly: 

"Ask  Mrs.  Deans  who  Myron  Holder  is!"  She  slipped 
away,  the  gloom  of  the  unlighted  street  absorbing  her  fig- 
ure, as  though  it  gathered  to  itself  its  righteous  belonging. 


; 


370 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


I 


CHAPTEK  XXI. 

"  We  arc  the  voices  of  the  wuntlering  wind, 
Which  seek  for  quiet,  mid  (luicit  can  never  find. 
Lo !  as  the  wind  is,  so  is  mortal  life — 
A  moan,  a  sob,  a  sigh,  a  storm,  a  strife.  " 

M  EXT  morning  Philip  Hardman  left  Mrs.  Deans'  early. 
He  was  leaving  by  the  first  train  from  the  little  flag  station 
which  was  at  the  far  end  of  the  village;  besides,  he  was 
determined  to  seo  Myron  Holder. 

Mrs.  Deans  had  endeavored  to  dissuade  him  from  this, 
but  he  was  firm,  and,  recognizing  this,  Mrs.  Deans  sug- 
gested that  she  accompany  him  upon  his  mission ;  but  he 
stated  gently,  but  firmly,  that  he  could  achieve .  better 
results  alone.  Mrs.  Deans  felt  bitterly  aggrieved  at  being 
treated  thus,  for  behind  his  gentle  words  she  read 
a  settled  determination  "to  keep  her  out  of  it,"  as  she 
phrased  it  to  herself. 

She  bade  him  good-bye,  however,  with  well-affected  geni- 
ality, as  he  stood  upon  her  doorstep;  but  the  shallow 
smile  died  very  soon,  and  a  malevolent  expression  replaced 
it  upon  her  fat  features. 

"I'll  speak  to  Brother  Fletcher  about  this,"  she  said. 
"  That  Hardman  is  sorely  puffed  up  in  his  own  conceit  and 
vainglorious!  Well,  by  himself  he  can  do  nothing,"  she 
concluded,  piously. 

But  whether  it  was  the  absence  of  the  Lord  or  herself 
from  Hardman 's  side  that  was  going  to  militate  against  his 
success  she  left  undetermined.  There  might  also  have  been 
some  doubt  in  the  mind  of  the  impartial  hearer  as  to 
whether  she  was  glad  or  sorr^  that  his  mission  was  likely  to 
be  a  failure.  Certainly  her  tone  was  not  indicative  of  anj 
great  ^rief^ 


Till'.     VN  TEMPER  ED   11/ M) 


871 


carlv. 

station 
lie  was 

n  this, 
IS  sug- 
but  ho 
.  better 
t  being 
e  read 
&s  she 

d  geni- 
shallow 
Bplaced 

e  said, 
eit  and 
g,"  she 

herself 
inst  his 
ve  been 
as  to 
ikely  to 

of  anj 


She  betook  liorself  indoors,  and  set  about  preparing  a 
fresh  8up}»ly  of  country  dainties  for  the  Ueverend 
Fie  teller. 

IMiilip  Ilardinan's  fico  changed  also  after  ho  turned  it 
from  Mrs.  Doans'  self-contenteil  countenance,  and  the  new 
expression  was  not  far  removed  from  one  of  t'isgusted  con- 
tempt; and,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  somewhat  sneering  bit- 
terness made  his  keen  eyes  sombre,  lie  had  asked  Mrs. 
Deans  tlio  night  before  who  Myron  Holder  was,  and  had 
been  told — tola!  but  in  such  a  fashion!  Mrs.  Deans' 
evil  words  still  stung  his  heart  witli  shame  for  his  kind. 
He  felt  as  tliough  one  nad  smitten  his  lips  with  nettles. 

And  the  pious  speeches  with  which  Mrs.  Deans  had 
besprent  her  tale — bah !  It  was  like  sprinkling  a  weak 
disinfectant  over  a  heap  of  filth.  It  was  indeed  the 
"  poison  of  asps"  to  hear  Scripture — nay,  the  very  words 
of  his  Master — so  defiled.  ♦ 

Well,  llardman  compressed  his  lips  and  hurried  on. 

The  morning  was  sweet  and  calm,  the  "shoreless  air" 
very  clear  and  still,  and,  little  by  little,  his  spirit  attuned 
itself  to  the  hour;  shred  by  shred,  the  mantle  of  bitterness, 
fell  from  him.  The  memories  of  the  evening  mingled 
with  the  hopes  of  the  morning,  into  a  driiught  that  was 
very  sweet  to  him.  AVhen  he  reached  the  cottage  door  his 
eyes  were  exalted,  his  lips  calm,  his  heart  confident. 

The  door  was  open,  and  through  it  he  saw  a  bare  room» 
the  walls  stained  a  deep  yellow  with  ochre ;  a  carpetless 
floor,  comfortless  but  clean ;  a  square  table,  with  a  coarse 
white  cloth  covering  it,  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room; 
upon  it  was  some  food.  Myron  sat  there  alone,  but  there 
was  another  plate  laid,  beside  which  stood  a  battered  tin 
mug.  All  this  he  took  in  at  a  glance,  and  then  his  eyes 
fastened  upon  the  woman's  face.  She  was  as  yet  uncon- 
scious of  his  presence.     She  sat  at  the  table  in  such  f 


■  \ 


•1; 

i. 

1 

ii 

i 

s 

272 


THE    I'NTEMrERlil)   IVIXD 


■  t  I 


position  tliat  the  profile  of  licr  face  was  outlined  sharply 
against  the  bright  yellow  of  the  walls. 

Her  face,  as  ho  beheld  it  thus  for  the  first  time  in  clear 
daylight,  struck  him  with  swift  remembrance  of  an  exqui- 
site picture  he  had  once  seen,  a  meek-mouthed  Madonna 
painted  on  a  bright  brass  plaque.  There  was  the  same 
pose  of  head,  tlie  same  heavy  knot  of  nut-brown  hair,  the 
same  outward  sweep  of  the  lashes  from  tiie  same  drooped 
lids,  the  sanio  exc'uisite  line  where  the  check  softened  to 
the  throat.  lUit,  alas!  thero  was  no  heavenly  nimbus 
round  this  living  head,  no  holy  glow  of  happy  maternity, 
no  pure  halo  of  womanhood. 

At  that  moment  Myron  turned  towards  the  doorway, 
and,  as  her  eyes  met  his,  his  imagination  suddenly  supplied 
the  aureole  that  before  she  seemed  to  lack,  and,  in  com- 
pletion of  the  picture,  a  stray  line  or  two  of  poetry  came 
back  to  him  with  all  the  happy  force  of  aj^plicability: 

"Eh,  sweet,  '\ 

.  Yoii  have  the  eyes  men  ehoose  to  paint,  you  know  ; 
And  just  that  soft  turn  in  the  little  throat, 
And  bluish  color  in  the  lower  lid,  \ 

They  make  saints  with.  " 

He  started  as  he  realized  that  he  was  comparing  the 
Madonna  to  this  unblest  mother — an  ideal  of  saintly  beauty 
to  this  sinning  one.  But  all  in  an  instant  there  came  to 
him  a  swift  certainty  that  this  was  not  the  face  of  an  evil 
woman.  This  woman  bore  in  her  countenance  the  indeli- 
ble lines  of  pain  and  suffering,  the  ineffaceable  traces  ri 
bodily  and  mental  anguish.  She  had  been  bowed  beneath 
the  burden  of  woman's  inalienable  heritage  of  agony,  had 
lived  through  the  Gethsemane  of  childbirth  and  won  to 
the  heights  of  motherhood's  Golgotha — a  child's  grave. 
But  in  all  this,  rememberj  there  is  nothing  vile ;  it  is  only 
infinitely  pitiful, 


1 


1 


liarply 

1  clear 
exqiii- 
iidonna 
c  same 
lir,  tho 
Irooiied 
cned  to 
nimbus 
ternity, 

oorway, 
mpplied 
ill  com- 
;ry  came 

ty: 


riug  the 
y  beauty 

came  to 
f  an  evil 
e  indeli- 

races  cl 

beneath 
Dny,  had 
won  to 

s  grave. 

t  is  only 


A  M£EK-MOUTH£0  MAPONtf A, 


ji 


■    ri; 


* 


\ 


1 1 
i  1 


1    ! 


P-     i    ■         »"' 


TIfE   VNTEMPERED  WIND  2„ 

Whilst  be  gazea   and  thougl.t  these  things  swiftly,  she 
had  nser  f.o>n  her  place  and  stood  with  cl4od  hand'  and 

hat  he  felt  a  great  throb  of  pity.     lie  took  a  step  for- 
ward  and  lield  out  bis  liand. 

ea,'iv  "tlfr""'-  ',"/'■'  *™'"'"  ''"  ^"'''=  "'^"'  I  '•»■"''  »»vay 
caiJ},  tliat  I  might  sec  yon." 

tated^""  '"''  ''"'^  ^'^"  ''"  ^"""'"'^^  "bnf-sbe  besi- 

nn!i^"l-'''1'"  '"  "'■«*"'  ^'''''y'  ''oWingboth  her  bands 
and  looking  down  at  ber. 

"  Do  yon  know  who  I  am?"  she  asked. 
"  Yes,"  be  answered,  "  I  know  everythin.^  " 
voi'Z""  ™ked  Mrs.  Deans!"  she  said  in^an  incredulons 

Ho  flushed  at  the  tone.     It  told  so  clearly  that  she  fully 

nnderstood  what  Mrs.  Deans  would  say;  and  somehov,  it 

eemed  to  hnk  hnn  with  Mrs.  Deans,  as  if  he  and  that 

worthy  woman  stood  on  one  side  of  a  river  and   Myron 

Holder  alone  on  the  other.     He  could  not  bear  that. 

_^  i  es   but  I  always  judge  for  myself,"  be  said  quickly. 

Oh !    she  sa.d.        You  are "  She  stopped,  bnt  gave 

the  note  ot  those  swift  glances  of  ineffable  gratitude  Ihat 
had  so  often  stirred  Homer's  heart 

And,  looking  at  ber  thus,  Hardman  forgave  her  every- 
thing, for  Love  pardons  the  nnpardo.mble  past;"  and 
ihis  man  from  that  moment  loved  ber,  altho.  jb  he  did 
not  yet  know  it.  -^ 

ZIaT  I"'"'  T  ""'^  '''""'  *"  y""'"  ''^  «'i'J'  glueing  at 

^  It  zrir^""^^"  ^"""'  ''''-^' "'---''- 

"Ah,  so  dear!"  she  answered. 
Thers  after  a  moment's  pause,  she  went  on  swiftly 
Oh,  you  can  understand  wliat  it  was-surely  you  can^ 


11 


1   ' 

'- 
< 

' 

HtS 


"Hi^lilXiitiaB 


274 


THE    UNTEMPEl^ED   WIND 


\»-  V 


in 

'f' 


you  arc  so  good!  He  was  everything  to  me,  absolutely 
everything!  The  thought  of  him  kept  me  from  greater 
sin !  I  was  nearly  blind  with  weariness,  and  the  way  was 
getting  dimmer  and  dimmer  to  my  eyes;  but  his  laugh 
showed  me  where  the  right  road  lay,  and,  when  I  found  it 
again,  his  steps  kept  me  company!  Oh,  can  you  think 
what  it  is  to  see  the  only  creature — the  only  living  thing 
in  all  the  world — that  loves  you — die?"  She  looked  at 
him,  an  interrogation  so  poignant  as  to  be  imperative  in 
her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  are  two  lonely  souls,  Myron.  In 
all  the  wide  earth  there  is  none  who  cares  whether  I  live 
or  die." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said.  "  Only,  you  are  so  good  you 
can  have  friends  for  the  seeking.  As  for  me,  I  am  not  fit 
to  be  any  one's  friend.  I  had  one  friend  here,  but  he  is 
dead  too" — she  added  the  last  sentence  with  a  strange, 
swift  sense  of  justice.  Even  though  Homer  was  dead,  she 
could  not  bear  that  he  be  classed  with  those  others  who 
had  been  so  cruel. 

"Yes,"  answered  Hardman,  "I  heard  of  him." 

"Did  she  tell  you  that  he  died  to  save  My'a  life?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,  she  told  me,"  he  answered. 

Tliere  was  a  pause,  then  Myron  said: 

"  It  was  so  good  of  you  to  come!"  He  noticed  the  harsh 
tones  of  her  voice. 

"  Have  you  a  sore  throat?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  said;  "  but  my  child  died  of  suffocation.  His 
throat  was  swollen  with  inflammation  and  croup,  and  when 
he  tried  to  speak  to  me  his  voice  was  hard,  like  mine  is 
now.  It  made  my  own  throat  ache;  and  ever  since,  the 
pain  has  been  there  and  I  have  spoken  in  this  way." 

Thus,  simply,  Myron  told  of  tliat  marvel,  that  extraordi- 


>lntely 

greater 

[ly  was 

laugh 

und  it 

tliiuk 

thing 

ked  at 

tive  in 

n.  In 
r  I  live 

od  you 
not  fit 
b  he  is 
trange, 
ad,  she 
3r8  who 


3^' 


she 


le 


harsh 


n.  His 
id  when 
mine  is 
nee,  the 

[traordi- 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND  275 

nary  instance  of  the  power  of  Love.  For  this  was  indeed 
so.  In  Myrcn's  case  had  been  made  manifest  one  of  those 
marvellous  mysteries  of  tlie  human  mechanism  that  now 
and  again  thrills  the  scientist  with  a  burning  zeal  to  dis- 
cover the  real  relation  between  mind  and  matter,  to  enter 
the  penetralia  of  humanity  and  learn  its  secret.  That 
desolate  night  in  the  cottage  the  mother-heart  appre- 
hendea  each  pang  of  the  choking  child,  and  the  mother 
endured  in  her  own  organism  a  like  agony.  How  sad  to 
think  she  had  no  Divine  license  to  do  so!  How  strange 
that  such  a  love  should  spring  from  shame! 

Hardman's  mind  grasped  the  significance  of  her  words 
upon  the  instant.  For  a  moment  the  realization  of  this 
woman's  strength  held  him  silent.  Then  he  remembered 
her  loneliness  and  bent  towards  her. 

"  Myron,"  he  said,  "  will  you  be  my  friend?" 

"Oh,  do  you  mean  it?"  she  asked,  breathlessly. 

"Assuredly,"  he  said. 

Then  once  more   Myron  gave  her  hands  as  a  seal  of 
friendship. 

There  was  only  a  short  time  left  after  that— a  few 
moments  of  earnest  prayer  from  Philip  Hardman— a  few 
words  asking  her  to  go  to  the  rest  of  the  meetings— a  brief 
promise  from  her  and  briefer  acknowledgments  of  his 
goodness  faltering  between  her  sobs— then  Hardman  had 
said  good-bye,  and  his  form  was  already  vanishing  from 
sight  before  Myron  realized  that  she  was  once  more  alone. 

Philip  Hardman  hurried  to  the  station  and  caught  his 
train.  The  first  stage  of  his  journey  was  short,  only  some 
fifty  miles  to  the  city,  where  he  was  to  meet  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Fletcher.  He  found  him  at  the  depot,  ready  to  go  to 
Jamestown,  In  a  few  hurried  words  Hardman  told  him 
of  Myron  Holder— of  her  sin— her  punishment— her  sor- 
row.     He  commended  h'^r  to  Mr.  Fletcher's  prayers,  and 


If 


276 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


asked  him  to  preach  so  that  her  difiidcnt  lieart  might  find 
some  message  in  his  words. 

Mr.  Fletcher  prom.ised,  and  expressed  with  some  little 
emphasis  a  hope  that  Ilardman'sown  labors  might  be  blest. 

Then  he  departed.  His  train  was  just  pulling  out  when 
Hardman  ran  up  to  the  open  window,  by  which  Mr. 
Fletcher  had  settled  himself. 

"You'll  be  gentle  with  her,  Brotlier  Fletcher?  She  is 
indeed  a  bruised  reed." 

There  was  no  time  for  answer.  Mr.  Hardman  did  not 
witness  the  scorn  with  which  this  advice — no  entreaty 
— was  received.  He  stood  looking  after  the  swiftly 
vanishing  train  somewhat  sadly;  then,  rousing  himself, 
went  to  find  out  about  the  train  that  was  to  take  him  to 
his  new  charge. 

Philip  Hardman's  father  had  been  a  mechanic,  a  life- 
long worker  in  one  of  those  sooty,  befouling  foundries 
where  the  great  furnaces  gleam  like  so  many  mouths  of  the 
Pit — where  all  day  long  there  is  the  roar  of  flames,  the 
blast  of  hot  air,  the  clang  of  metal,  the  heat  of  Hades,  the 
hiss  of  molten  iron,  the  angry  flight  of  sparks  struck  from 
huge  anvils;  all  the  haste  and  fury  and  dumb-brutish 
endurance  of  men  working  at  the  top  notch  of  physical 
exertion,  rushing  hither  and  thither  like  demons  before 
the  fires,  or  clad  in  grotesque  masks  and  armor,  turning 
great  masses  of  glowing,  cooling  metal  so  that  the  steam- 
hammers  may  forge  them  into  shape. 

In  this  atmosphere  Philip  Hardman's  father  had  spent 
all  his  life  since  he  was  a  little  lad,  carrying  water  to  the 
workers — water  in  which  flying  gi)arks  quenched  them- 
selves, hissing.  It  would  be  no  wonder  if  from  a  race 
of  fathers,  such  as  these  blackened  workers,  gnome-like 
children  were  to  be  born,  all  action  and  no  thought; 
swift,  tireless,  inhuman.     But  these  men,  darting  about  in 


pnnii 


gilt  find 

ne  little 
be  blest, 
lit  when 
ich   Mr. 

She  is 

did  not 
entreaty 
swiftly 
himself, 
3  him  to 

I,  a  life- 
sundries 
IS  of  the 
mes,  the 
ides,  the 
ck  from 
i-brutish 
physical 
s  before 
turning 
i  steam - 

id  spent 
ir  to  the 
d  them- 
n  a  race 
Dme-like 
bought; 
about  in 


THE    UNTEMPEKED  WIND  277 

the  glare  of  the  dusky  fires,  hke  devil-riddcn  spectres,  had 
some  of  them,  time  for  thought.  Indeed,  the  man  who 
moves  unmoved  amid  these  masses  of  incarnate  heat,  steps 
over  and  around  streams  of  liquid  fire,  watches  those  infer- 
nal  lakes,  plumbago-shored,  which  one  single  drop  of  water 
converts  into  death-dealing  volcanoes,  and  stands  beside  a 
torrent  of  molten  iron  as  it  Jlows  fron.  the  crucible,  ready  to 
dam  its  resistless  tide  on  the  instant,  may  well  be  credited 
with  capacity,  if  not  time,  for  thought. 

To  Philip  Hardman's  father  during  those  long,  hot 
hours  of  breathless  haste  there  came  ideas-distorted 
meagre,  and  ill-developed,  perhaps-which,  when  he  left  the 
works  at  night,  pallid-faced  beneath  the  grime,  still  bore 
him  company :  nebulous  visions  of  great  labor-saving  devices 
by  which  men  forever  would  be  exempt  from  the  dreadful 
toil  that  scorched  both  soul  and  body. 

There  was  many  a  rich  germ  dormant  in  these  ideas  of 
his,  but  lackin.-  the  cohesion  of  long,  uninterrupted 
thought,  and  wanting  the  quickening  of  accurate  knowl- 
edge.  For  there  lay  Philip  Hardman's  great  stumbling- 
block.  To  perfect  his  inventions,  he  required  a  knowledge 
of  chemicals  and  of  difl'erent  forces  and  their  application 
and  an  insight  into  the  cause  of  the  effects  he  wished  to 
produce. 

How  blindly,  painfully  and  heart-brokenly  he  toiled 
after  tliis  knowledge  no  one  ever  fully  appreciated.  His 
son,  long  years  after  his  death,  realized  it  m  some  fashion 
He  did  not  ask  assistance  of  any  one,  for  he  feared,  with 
the  traditional  dread  of  the  inventor,  lest  the  one  from 
whom  he  sought  advice  should  steal  his  idea.  He  saved  to 
buy  books  that  were  useless  to  him,  and  pored  over  th'eir 
misleading  pages  with  eyes  from  which  all  moisture  seemed 
scorched  away,  until  the  very  eyeballs  themselves  felt  hot 
and  hard;    but   he   kept   them   painfully  fastened    upon 


27^ 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


those  pages  frcm  which  he  strove  to  wrest  a  secret  they  did 
not  hold,  to  learn  those  things  which  would  enable  him  to 
set  free  forever  his  fellows  from  the  necessity  of  enduring 
that  soul-baking  heat. 

Perhaps  his  invention,  even  if  perfected,  would  not  have 
compassed  all  he  dreamed  it  would,  for  he  was  prone  to 
endow  it  almost  with  thinking  as  well  as  executive  powers, 
and  to  think  of  it  as  animated  by  a  great  zeal  for  mankind 
as,  with  its  nerveless  phalanges,  it  performed  those  awful 
tasks.  Perhaps  there  may  be  greater  ideals  than  the 
thought  of  setting  men  free  from  one  of  the  most  terrible 
and  exhaustive  forms  of  labor;  but  none  knew  better  than 
this  man  the  terrors  of  heat,  none  understood  more  clearly 
how  the  mind  narrowed  as  the  body  shrank  before  the 
stifling  blasts.  And,  after  all,  if  we  all  set  ourselves  to 
alleviate  the  special  misery  we  understand,  there  would  be 
fewer  misshapen  lives  in  the  world. 

Well— 

"  How  many  a  vulgar  Cato  has  compelled 
His  energies,  no  longer  tameless  then, 
To  mould  a  pin,  or  fabricate  a  nail ! " 


M 


i\ 


Philip  Hardman's  mother  was  a  woman  of  a  hysteri 
nature,  who  scarcely  thought  enough  of  this  world  to  make 
her  husband  and  children  comfortable  in  it.  The  chil- 
dren were  narrow-chested,  weak  little  creatures.  Tlicy 
heard  from  her  lips  terrible  tales  of  the  wrath  to  come, 
couched  in  symbolism  they  well  understood,  for  their 
father  worked  daily  amid  just  such  scenes  as  their  mother 
depicted  the  abode  of  the  damned  to  be.  The  parallel 
between  the  Hades  her  words  pictured  forth  and  her  hus- 
band's life  never  struck  Mrs.  Hardman. 

Even  when  her  husband  died — going  to  his  grave  a 
broken-hearted  man,  barren  of  achievement,  leaving  not 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


270 


ave  a 
g  not 


one  labor-saving  device,  not  one  little  bolt  or  wheel  called 
by  his  name — she  did  not  regret  or  realize  the  hard  life  he 
had  had,  nor  think  she  might  have  made  it  easier.  She 
only  tortured  herself  daily  by  wondering  if  she  had  suffi- 
ciently represented  to  him  his  lost  condition. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  she  was  more  interested  in  con- 
vincing herself  that  she  was  free  of  responsibility  than  that 
he  was  saved. 

In  time,  however,  she  began  to  fee!  that  she  had  done 
her  best,  and,  feeling  it  would  be  too  much  like  "  them 
Catholics"  to  pray  for  the  soul  of  a  dead  man,  she  turned 
all  her  attention  to  her  own.  Doubtless  she  was  right; 
and  yet,  is  it  not  a  beautiful  myth  to  think  that  prayer 
from  a  loving  heart  may  benefit  those  we  love,  even  if  they 
have  passed  "beyond  these  voices"? 

If  we  must  needs  pick  and  choose  delusions,  why  not 
take  those  unselfish  ones,  so  beautiful,  if  inutile?  Is  it 
not  an  idea  really  worthy  of  a  Divinity  to  think  that  by 
our  self-flagellations  our  loved  ones  may  bo  freed  from 
stripes?  Are  there  not  some  of  us  who  would  gladly  thus 
requite  debts  of  incalculable  benefits  received — some  of 
us  who  would  dare  accept  even  a  Hell  to  know  our  loved 
one  had  a  Heaven? 

Philip  Hardman's  father  had  belonged  to  various  insur- 
ance societies,  such  as  workmen  form  for  mutual  benefit. 
It  would  have  sufficed  to  keep  life  in  all  the  children  until 
such  time  as  they  became  self-supporting;  but  one  by  one 
they  died,  until  only  Philip  was  left.  He  worked  in  the 
"pattern-shop"  in  the  works  until  he  was  twenty,  when 
his  mother  died.  Then  he  took  the  residue  of  his  father's 
insurance  money  and  his  own  savings  and  went  to  school. 

It  is  not  strange  that  he  should  choose  the  ministry. 
He  had  inherited  all  his  father's  love  for  his  kind  and 
much  of  his  mother's  fervor  of  purpose,  added  to  which 


28o 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


II I 
lii 


J 


lio  had  his  own  ])irthright  of  lofty  idealism ;  but  ho  had 
j.lso  somctliiiig  of  the  weaknesses  of  both  parents.  His 
iiiotlKir's  instability  clung  to  him  and  nuidc  him  vacillat- 
i.LT,  and  the  secrecy  of  his  father  in  regard  to  his  inven- 
licijs  survived  in  him  under  the  guise  of  habitual  reti- 
ctr.ci'.  lie  was  deeply  impressed  with  the  sadness  of  life, 
.';n(l  thought  he  saw  in  religion  the  one  jianacea  for  pain, 
liosidcs,  he  too  wished  to  llec  from  the  wrath  to  come. 

He  had  been  preaching  some  seven  years  when  he  vis- 
ited Jamestown,  and  during  that  time  he  had  bitten 
through  to  the  ashes  more  than  once.  The  fruit  he  held 
against  his  lips  was  losing  even  its  fair  seeming. 

His  charges  were  always  amid  the  poor,  and  he  was 
beginning  to  rebel  against  a  doctrine  that  accused  a 
Divine  Being  of  all  the  cruelties  life  holds.  "  The  poor 
have  the  Gospel  preached  to  them"  he  had  once  looked 
upon  as  the  expression  of  Divine  benefaction;  now  it 
struck  him  as  being  redolent  of  a  peculiar  and  brutal 
sarcasm. 

Philip  Hardman  had  all  his  life  thought  of  his  religion 
as  only  true  M'hen  environed  in  an  atmosphere  of  severity. 
One  day,  just  after  a  tumult  of  doubt  and  a  corresponding 
influx  of  faith  and  confidence,  he  went  into  a  Roman 
Catholic  cathedral.  The  exact  reason  for  this  is  hard  to 
divine.  Perhaps  it  may  have  been  some  mad  thought  of 
attacking  Rome  in  her  own  citadel.  At  any  rate,  he 
went  in  and  sat  down,  looking  about  him  with  right- 
eous contempt  at  the  "  idolatrous  images"  in  their  carven 
niches.  His  religious  dreams  had  ever  been  barren  of 
that  ecstasy  which  springs  from  the  grandeur  and  dignity 
of  gorgeous  ceremonials,  sonorous  chanting,  vibrating 
music.  He  had  never  experienced  the  breathless  hush  of 
suspense  between  the  intoned  invocation  of  priests  and  the 
thrilling  choral  response.     He   had  never,  at  the  clear- 


' 


Th'E    UN  TEMP  EKED   WIND 


281 


right- 


tongued  ringing  of  a  bul!,  let  full  his  head  and  abased  his 
spirit.  But  now  he  experienced  an  emotion  such  as 
possessed  the  monks  of  the  Kosy  Cross,  when  to  their  fervid 
vision  the  stony  walls  of  their  cells  parted  and  disclosed 
vistas  of  heavenly  beauty.  He  adored  with  the  fervor  of 
the  true  fanatic  The  Church — saw  her  for  the  first  time 
in  the  light  of  a  beautiful  mistress,  to  bo  worshipjied 
alon«^- -for  herself — her  beauty — her  charm — her  power. 

Philip  Ilardnian  left  the  cathedral,  his  eyes  kindled, 
his  step  light,  lie  had  had  doubts  of  his  love,  but  they 
were  all  gone  now.  He  had  been  dwelling  apart  from 
her;  he  hati  but  heard  echoes  of  her  voice;  ho  had  never 
seen  her  as  he  should  have  seen  her,  at  home — mystical, 
with  dim,  subdued  and  vaporous  light,  clad  in  gorgeous 
vestments;  incensed  with  heavenly  odors,  irradiate  with  a 
hundred  colors  as  the  sunlight  fell  through  the  painted 
windows  and  the  altar  lights  smote  answering  flames  from 
the  gold  of  the  altar;  served  by  humble  servitors  nuule 
holy  by  their  service. 

He  had  regarded  her  as  a  poor  bride,  without  a  wedding 
garment,  chilled  by  the  cold  breath  of  the  world,  abashed 
by  the  insulting  sneers  of  the  ungodly.  He  now  beheld 
her  as  she  was,  a  Queen  upon  a  throne,  in  all  the  regal 
magnificence  of  her  regal  state. 

He  was  no  longer  the  cherisher  of  a  feeble  flame,  striving 
to  make  it  shine  in  darkness;  he  was  an  humble  slave  of 
a  great  lamp,  blessed  if  the  farthest-reaching  rays  from 
the  sacred  centi'c  of  light  shone  upon  his  unworthy  head 
or  gilded  his  outstretched  hands.  He  had  thought  of 
his  creed  pitifully  as  a  "  torn  leaf  out  of  an  old  book 
trampled  in  the  dirt."  There  was  none  of  that  here — no 
apology — no  plea;  there  was  only  a  triumphant  paean  of 
a  glorious  creed,  a  sad  mourning  over  those  that  wore 
without  it. 


ij 


\ 


282 


T//E   UNiEMPERED  WIND 


This  spiritual  exaltation  working  upon  his  eager  nature 
imparted  to  him  a  physical  stimulus  exhilarating  and 
strange.  He  strode  along  vig(  rously.  He  felt  that  ho 
was  "strong  and  fleet"  in  spirit,  mind,  and  body.  He 
walited  on;  the  day  waned;  distinct  thought  had  long 
since  departed.  His  mood,  which  in  an  Oriental  would 
liave  induced  tlie  coma  of  the  hasheesh  eater,  prompted  him 
luizily  to  form  great  })lans  for  tlie  good  of  his  kind.  The 
good  of  his  kind?  No,  the  glory  of  Tlic  Church.  He 
followed  few  of  these  plans  to  any  conclusion.  They 
ended  as  they  had  begun,  in  nel)ulous  imaginings  of 
glory.  And,  as  glory  is  easily  transferable  from  the  wor- 
shipped to  the  worshipper,  the  endiug  of  his  dreams 
included  a  cloud  of  incense  to  himself — the  incense  of 
approval,  admiration,  and  the  sweet  savor  of  self-inllicted 
martyrdom. 

He  walked  on,  pitiably  unaware  of  the  St.  Simeon 
Stylites  attitude  he  had  assumed.  Night  dimmed  down; 
the  wind  rose,  dead  elm  leaves  were  blown  across  his 
path,  rustling  under  foot.  The  night  wind,  chill  with 
first  frosts,  aroused  him  with  a  shiver  to  remember  where 
he  was.  He  found  himself  in  the  country ;  long  vistas  of 
barren  fields  stretched  out  before  him  a  dreary  panorama. 

The  gray  sky  was  darkened  by  crows  flying  silently 
towards  their  nightly  roosts.  He  passed  pools  of  lifeless 
water,  choked  with  sodden  leaves.  A  laborer  slouched 
by — a  laborer  from  the  railway  going  home,  content 
because  he  had  earned  double  pay  for  a  Sunday's  work. 
The  odor  of  decaying  vegetables  somewhere  near  struck 
painfully  upon  Hardman's  senses.  This,  he  thought,  with 
disgust,  was  the  odor  of  nature — of  the  world. 

The  night  suddenly  dropped  down  from  the  clouds,  and 
the  darkness  urged  him  to  seek  shelter.  He  approached  a 
cottage  he  observed  dimly,  finding  his  way  to  it  up  an 


ture 
and 
t  ho 

He 
long 
ronUl 
I  him 

The 

He 

They 

58    of 

wor- 
rcanis 
ISO  of 
tlicted 

linieon 
down ; 
ss   his 
with 
where 
tas  of 
•ama. 
ilently 
lifeless 
uched 
ontent 
work, 
struck 
t,  with 

,  and 

iched  a 

up  au 


THE    UN  TEA/ r EKED   WIND 


283 


uneven  lane  bordered  by  a  fantastic  fence  of  uprooted 
stiinips,  whoso  ragged  branch-like  roots,  twisted  and  dis- 
torted, stood  out  in  solid  blairk  masses  against  the  insub- 
stantial mist  of  the  night.     He  sliuddercd. 

It  seemed  to  his  supersensitive  fancy  that  these  grotesriuo 
slijipes  were  nuge  simulacra  of  tlie  aninuUcuUi)  tluit  the 
nncrosco[)e  discovers  in  water.  His  nuiscles  shrank  as  ho 
imagined  these  huge  shapes,  unseen  but  not  unseeing, 
writhing  through  the  air,  flourishing  their  weird  forms 
over  and  around  his  head,  embracing  him  with  their 
euistic  antennji3  and  moving  with  him  encircled  in  their 
horrible,  impalpable  embrace.  With  what  devilish  skill 
they  swept  nearer  and  nearer  to  him,  avoiding  him  by  a 
hair's  breadth,  and  perceiving  how  his  spirit  shrank  from 
their  approach !  He  gazed  up  into  the  night,  striving  to 
see  there  the  dreadful  shapes  his  fancy  had  woven  into  a 
Dante-like  vision.  The  side  glimps^es  his  eyes  held  of  the 
fantastic  forms  of  the  roots  projected  themselves  upon  the 
curtains  of  the  night  before  him.  His  breath  quickened; 
he  felt  stifled;  he  withdrew  his  gaze  from  tlie  clouds  and 
fastened  it  upon  his  path,  which,  to  his  distorted  fancy, 
seemed  to  contract  until  it  narrowed  down  to  an  impassa- 
ble barrier  of  threatening,  twining  arms. 

He  stumbled  on. 

As  he  staggered  across  the  threshold  of  the  cottage  he 
brushed  through  a  mass  of  dried,  sweet  grass,  cut  down  and 
left  to  wither  in  the  pathway.  Its  snuff-like  odor  brought 
back  the  incense  of  the  afternoon.  With  a  strong  revul- 
sion of  feeling,  he  threw  off  alike  the  sensuous  charm  of  the 
odor  and  the  horrid  phantasmagoria  that  his  imagination 
had  conjured  up. 

He  knocked  at  the  door,  feeling  a  self-disgust  that 
amounted  almost  to  physical  nausea. 

Philip  Hardroan  after  this  was  especially  bitter  in  his 


hi 


284 


77/ A-    UNTKMrEKED   WIND 


%M 


sermons  against  Rome — her  priests — her  altars — her  in- 
cense— her  teachings.  He  regarded  liimsclf  aa  having 
escaped,  hardly  hy  the  skin  of  his  teeth,  from  the  clutches 
of  the  Scarlet  Woman  tluit  sitteth  upon  the  Seven  Kills, 
and  besought  his  hearers  oft,  with  all  his  own  peculitir 
eloquence,  to  keep  themselves  withdrawn  from  the  tempta- 
tions of  Kome,  of  which,  ho  avowed  almost  with  tears,  ho 
had  felt  the  power. 

This  experience  has  no  hearing  upon  the  story  of  INFyron 
Holder,  save  inasmuch  as  it  indicates  the  emotional  insta- 
bility of  Philip  llardmau.     Poor  Myron! 


CHAPTER  XXH. 


"Beliold,  we  know  not  anything  ! 
I  ciin  but  trust  that  s^ootl  shall  fall 
At  last — far  olT — at  last,  to  all ; 
And  every  winter  change  to  spring,  " 

"O  Wind,  if  winter  comes,  can  spring  bo  far  behind?" 

Mr.  Fletcher  arrived  in  Jamestown  in  due  time  and 
was  met  at  the  station  hy  Mrs.  Deans.  Hardly  had  they 
started  ujion  their  drive  to  Mrs.  Deans'  before  Mr. 
Fletcher  inquired  about  Myron  Holder.  Mrs.  Deans 
launched  forth  eloquently,  and  Mr.  Fletcher  was  soon  in 
possession  of  the  same  facts  and  fancies  concerning  ]\Iyron 
Holder  as  Philip  Hardman  had  been  deluged  with;  but 
the  Reverend  Fletcher  viewed  the  recital  differently.  He 
regarded  Mrs.  Deans'  indignation  as  being  the  natural  feel- 
ing of  a  good  woman  toward  a  bad  one,  and  saw  in  this 
drawing  away  of  the  skirts  nothing  derogatory  to  Mrs. 
Deans*  womanhood. 


\ 


and 
d  they 
3  Mr. 
Deans 
oon  in 
;Myron 
h;  but 
He 
al  feel- 
in  this 
io  Mrs. 


THE    UNTl.MrKKEl)   IVLYD 


flSs 


The  cluirch  was  filled  that  evening,  und  many  eyes 
watched  the  door  eagerly,  for  the  ])robable  appearance  of 
Myron  Holder  had  been  a  iniKih  discussed  theme  that  day. 
Many  of  them  had  missed  seeing  lier  the  night  before, 
but  there  certainly  was  no  danger  that  the  like  would 
occur  again. 

The  Keverend  Mr.  Fletcher  entered  with  his  hostes.^, 
and,  like  the  clever  church  diplonuit  that  he  was,  spoke  to 
tlie  class-leaders  and  the  elect,  und  smiled  benignly  but 
condescendingly  upon  the  lesser  lights,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded, without  further  parley,  to  the  platform.  He  was 
a  Juird-faced  man,  with  hawk-like  features,  coarsened  by 
wind  and  weather;  keen,  hard  eyes,  wherein  passion  hnd 
left  its  light  but  not  its  warmth;  strong,  square  jaws,  that 
inilicated  at  once  the  tenacity  and  stubbornness  of  the  man. 
The  Keverend  Fletcher  was  indeed  a  good  specimen  of  the 
evangelist  who  goes  forth  with  the  Sword  of  the  Smitcr 
rather  tlian  the  Halm  of  the  Healer.  There  was  no  fear  of 
his  beguiling  any  one  by  false  promises  of  perilous  peace. 

When  he  had  taken  his  position  behind  the  reading- 
desk,  he  too  began  to  watch  the  door.  From  Mrs. 
Deans'  description  of  Myron  Holder  he  had  formed  an 
idea  of  her  appearance.  Ho  looked  to  see  some  flaunting, 
rustic  beauty,  bold  of  eye,  brazen  of  deportment,  gayly 
dressed  perhaps,  and  defiant  of  bearing. 

It  lacked  but  a  moment  or  two  of  the  time  for  service 
when  Myron  Holder  entered  the  church.  She  paused  a 
moment  in  the  doorway,  looking  about  her  for  an  incon- 
spicuous seat.  There  was  one  but  a  step  from  the  doorway ; 
she  sank  into  it. 

The  Reverend  Fletcher  observed  her  pale  face  shine, 
star-like,  for  a  moment  against  the  darkness  of  the  un- 
lighted  porch  ere  she  stepped  within  the  church.  He 
decided  instantly  that  this  was  indeed  one  of  the  elect, 


It'-''  '^ 


286 


THE    UN  TEMPERED  WIND 


Ih 


I 


i  i!i  i 


.  I  i 


lij! 
ii 

in 


and  gave  no  further  thought  to  her.  His  whole  attention 
was  absorbed  in  looking  for  the  sinner  for  whose  soul  he 
was  to  do  battle.  He  thirsted  for  the  fray,  but  the  min- 
utes passed  and  no  one  else  entered,  so  he  took  up  his 
discourse,  and  bOon  had  his  congregation  in  a  spiritual 
tumult.  Ejaculations  came  thick  and  fast  from  his  hear- 
ers, and  there  were  as  many  weeping  women  as  any 
preacher  could  desire;  but  the  heart  of  the  Reverend 
J^letcher  was  hot  within  him  against  She,  the  godless  one, 
who  sat  at  home  whilst  the  warnings  an'^  threatenings  pre- 
pared for  her  were  poured  iato  the  ears  of  every  one  else  in 
the  village. 

Meantime  Myron  sat  half-dazed.  Truly  this  was  another 
doctrine  than  the  one  she  had  listened  to  the  night  before. 
Where,  amid  all  these  words,  was  the  promise  of  the 
pitying  Christ?  She  was  out  and  aAvay  the  moment  Mr. 
Fletcher  uttered  his  last  Amen.  As  he  stood  mopping 
the  perspiration  from  his  brow  she  was  speeding  through 
the  silent  street,  and  by  the  time  the  church  was  empty  she 
had  flung  herself,  sobbing,  on  her  bed. 

AVhen  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fletcher  discovered  that,  after 
all,  Myron  Holder  had  been  in  the  cLurch,  he  was  decid- 
edly disgusted.  He  always  liked  aiming  his  remarks  at 
some  particular  person,  and  always  felt  as  though  he  were 
firing  blank  cartridges  when  he  could  not  see  the  target, 
'i'hercfore  he  was  more  than  annoyed  to  find  that  he  had 
so  scattered  his  fire  when  he  might  have  taken  accurate 
aim  at  Myron.  He  remarked  to  Mrs.  Deans,  with  some 
irascibility,  that  her  description  of  Myron  Holder  had 
been  somewhat  misleading. 

*'0h,  she's  deep,"  said  Mrs.  Deans;  "and  that  sly 
there's  no  being  up  to  her.  Always  goin'  about  as  if  but- 
ter wouldn't  melt  in  her  mouth;  but  as  for  wickedness 
and  genuine,  inborn  badness!     Why,  Brother  Fletcher, 


THE    UNTEMPI'.RED   WIND 


287 


t  sly 
but- 
dness 
icher, 


it's  my  belief  and  solemn  opinion  that  she  was  jest  makin' 
a  set  at  Brother  ILirdman  with  them  eyes  of  her'n.  Fm 
glad,  Brother  Fletcher,  that  Brother  Hardman  was 
called  away.  He  was  very  young.  Brother  Hardman  was 
— very." 

The  Eeverend  Mr.  Fletcher,  recalling  Hardman's  words 
at  the  depot,  decided  that  Myron  was  a  dangerous  creature — 
a  sly  serpent,  evidently,  in  a  dove's  disguise.  The  Kever- 
end  Fletcher  girded  his  loins  to  the  fray,  and  was  fain  to 
look  well  to  his  breastplate  of  righteousness  and  to  give 
thanks  thnt  it  had  fallen  to  his  fate  to  emulate  Saint 
Anthony. 

Mrs.  White  and  Mrs.  Wilson  were  invited  to  take  tea 
"  along  with  the  minister"  next  day,  and  Mrs.  Wilson  played 
her  role  of  sorrowing  mother  to  perfection.  The  two  other 
ladies  paid  her  the  delicate  compliment  of  looking  fixedly 
at  her  for  a  moment,  then  shaking  their  heads  lugubri- 
ously and  Gxchahging  a  meaning  glance  with  each  other. 
When  the  cockles  of  their  hearts  were  warmed  by  the 
Japan  tea,  they  began  making  allusions  to  "dispensa- 
tions," and  "afflictions,"  and  "merciful  Providences" 
(terms  which  in  the  vocabulary  of  the  sanctified  seem  to 
mean  the  same  thing) ;  and  Mrs.  Wilson  began  making 
remarks  about  "  troubles"  which  were  not  very  intelligible, 
owing  to  her  beginning  them  with  a  sniff  and  ending  in  a 
snivel. 

All  this  fired  the  zeal  of  the  preacher  to  no  small 
degree.  He  resolved  they  should  see  the  strength  of  the 
spiritual  sword  when  wielded  by  his  hands.  He  assured 
them  that  the  stubborn  neck  of  the  offender  should  be 
bowed  beneath  the  Scriptural  yoke;  that  the  flinty  heart 
of  the  sinner  should  be  broken,  and  that  the  cause  of  all 
this  trouble  and  scandal  should  be  made  to  do  penance. 

These  cheerful  predictions  tilled  the  hearts  of  bis  hear- 


11 


288 


Till'    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


ers  with  much  joy,  and  they  parted  in  a  little  flutter  of 
excitement  to  meet  again  at  the  church,  where  they  antici- 
pated, as  Mrs.  White  expressed  it,  that  "  Brother  Fletcher 
would  show  that  Myron  Holder  up  in  her  true  colors." 

That  night  Myron  sat  again  in  that  far-back  seat,  and 
again  the  spiritual  thunders  of  the  Keverend  Fletcher 
spent  themselves  over  her  head.  In  all  his  harangue  there 
was  no  word  to  touch  her  soul. 

Death — death — death — was  the  burden  of  it  all.  Now 
death  is  a  bogy  to  fright  happy  children  with,  not  weary 
women.  Life  had  been  so  bitter  to  this  woman  that  its 
antithesis  could  not  be  aught  but  alluring. 


mill  I 


It  was  the  last  night  of  the  Reverend  Fletcher's  minis- 
tration in  Jamestown.  For  three  nights  he  had  fired 
volleys  of  fire  and  brimstone  at  Myron  Holder;  for  three 
nights  she  had  sat  patient,  pale,  unmoved — her  eyes  grow- 
ing wearier  and  wearier,  her  face  sadder  and  sadder,  as  her 
hope  of  finding  peace  grew  less  and  less.  It  was  such  a 
vague  hope,  not  concerned  with  repentance  of  sin  at  all, 
but  wholly  comprehended  in  an  ineffable  longini^  for  the 
fabled  rest  of  Philip  Hardman's  preaching.  She  had 
heard  no  further  word  of  it,  and  she  was  beginning  to- 
doubt  if  she  had  heard  aright  that  night  when  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  words  had  left  a  tiny  germ  of  hope  behind. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fletcher  was  also  sorely  troubled. 
His  reputation  as  a  revivalist  was  at  stake.  The  eyes  of 
the  village  were  upon  him.  It  is  true  that  he  had  had 
a  great  measure  of  success.  Every  night  the  anxious-seat 
had  been  filled  with  weeping  women.  Ossie  Annie  Abbie 
Maria  White  had  waxed  fairly  hysterical  as  she  avowed 
her  sins ;  Ann  Lemon  had  howled  forth  a  lengthy  lamenta- 
tion of  her  wickedness ;  Sol  Disney  had  professed  conver- 
sion, after  "resisting  the  workings  of  the  spirit  within 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


289 


him  for  twenty-seven  years,"  as  he  testified.  But  all  this 
garnered  grain  was  but  as  tares  in  the  sight  of  the  Rever- 
end Fletcher  because  of  that  one  stubborn  thistle  that 
refused  to  bow  its  head  to  the  Scriptural  sickle. 

But  the  Reverend  Fletcher  was  a  strategist  as  well  as  a 
fighter.  He  recalled  what  Mrs.  Deans  had  said  regarding 
Myron's  inordinate  love  for  her  child,  and,  remembering, 
resolved  to  win  Myron  Holder's  soul  despite  herself. 

With  this  resolution  strong  within  him,  he  took  his 
place  for  the  last  time  befol*e  a  Jamestown  audience.  It 
ought  to  have  been  very  gratifying  to  the  ministerial  eye — 
that  audience — for  all  the  village  was  there.  All — save 
with  on^.  notable  exception.  Clem  Humphries'  place 
before  Mrs.  Deans'  was  vacant,  and  never  again  would  he 
vex  that  worthy  woman's  soul  by  his  presence  in  the 
Jamestown  Tabernacle.  Clem  had  left  Jamestown.  The 
night  before  this  last  meeting  Clem,  willing  to  sustain  his 
role  of  a  religious  individual,  rose  in  his  place  and  in 
sepulchral  tones  asked  for  the  prayers  of  the  congrega- 
tion. It  is  probable  that  such  a  request  was  never  so 
promptly  granted  before,  for  hardly  had  he  resumed  his 
seat  before  Ann  Lemon  was  upon  her  feet. 

Always  voluble,  Ann  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  words 
wherewith  to  ad  1 'ess  the  Lord,  which  she  proceeded  to  do 
upon  Clem's  behalf,  as  follows:  "0  Lord,"  she  com- 
menced, "save  this  sinful  man  who  seeks  Tliy  aid!  You 
know  what  he  is,  0  Lord!  You  know  his  pretences,  his 
hypocrisy,  his  sinfulness;  but  save  him,  for  You  can! 
You  know  what  a  sinful  man  he  is,  far  beyond  any  hope 
of  good  in  this  world ;  but,  oh,  save  him. !  You  know  he 
drinks,  putting  an  enemy  into  his  mouth  to  steal  away  his 
soul  I  You  know  he  lies,  and  is  lazy,  and  is  a  Sabbath- 
breaker,  spending  in  sinful  sport  the  hours  when  he 
should  worship  Thee!  You  know  he  makes  his  religion 
19 


^^  I  .' 


\  1 


!l    •     ,-3 

f"  ■     ■ 


1 

'  1    ■ 
'      1 


290 


THE   VN  TEMPERED  WIND 


just  a  cloak  for  his  deceit!  You  know  all  this,  for  noth- 
ing is  hid  from  Thee !  You  know  he  oppressed  the  widow 
all  last  winter;  but  save  him,  Lord,  for  You  can!  Save 
him  now,  whilst  he  seeks  Thy  aid!  Yon  know  he  did  it 
for  his  own  ends,  to  make  people  believe  in  his  goodness; 
but  save  him  now — now,  0  Lord,  when  he  can't  get  out! 
Save  him  in  spite  of  himself — make  him  indeed  one  of 
Your  sheep !" 

Ann  sat  down,  amid  a  chorus  of  Aniens,  and  Clem  was 
eagerly  besought  to  testify;  but  Clem  was  literally  dumb 
with  rage,  and  sat  mute  whilst  the  Keverend  Fletcher 
prayed  that  the  "  new-found  brother  might  be  given  the 
gift  of  holy  speech"  that  he  might  "  show  forth  the  mercy  ho 
had  found,"  concluding  by  giving  thanks  for  the  conver- 
sion of  this  great  sinner.  And  this  to  a  man  who  liad  been 
so  long  a  favored  one  with  the  godly  in  the  land!  It  was 
too  much.  Clem  trembled  with  rage.  Ann's  life  would 
hardly  have  been  safe  at  that  moment  could  Clem  have 
laid  hands  on  her.  As  it  was,  she  did  not  fall  in  his  way, 
and  old  Clem  took  French  leave  of  Jamestown  that  night, 
shaking  the  dust  from  off  his  feet  as  a  testimony  against 
it.  lie  resolved  as  he  left  the  village  never  again  to  try 
to  keep  up  with  the  religious  folk.  Clem  decided  they 
made  the  place  too  hot  for  him. 

^rhe  Reverend  Fletcher  rose  and  began  his  address. 
Robbed  of  its  exuberance  of  expression  it  was  an  effective 
one.  He  concluded  with  an  impassioned  appeal  to  his 
hearers  to  accept  the  truth. 

"Is  there,"  ho  said,  "none  among  you  to  whom  there 
appears  a  little,  lonely  grave,  whose  whispering  grasses 
plead  to  you  to  think  of  the  little  one  buried  there? 
AVandering  alone  in  Heaven,  seeking  there  the  love  it  had 
on  earth,  already  wearied  by  its  long  waiting,  already 
faltering  as  it  searches  for  the  loved  face,  already  heart- 


THE    UNTEMPLRED   WIND 


39X 


there 
[asses 
I  ere? 
had 
[eacly 
leart- 


sick  as  it  listens  to  the  angels  singing  the  names  of  the 
saved  on  earth — but  never,  never  hears  that  loved  name  in 
the  heavenly  roll-call?  Is  there  none  among  you  who  has 
an  empty  heart?  Is  there  none  among  you  who  feels,  in 
memory  only,  the  loving  touch  of  baby  fingers?  Is  there 
none  among  you  who,  in  dreams  only,  hears  a  baby  voice 
cry  'Mother — Mother'?  If  there  is  such  a  mother,  will 
she  sit  stubbornly  silent  here  whilst  her  lonely  child- 
orphaned  even  in  Heaven  because  of  her  hard-heartedness 
— searches  ever  on  and  on  for  the  mother  that  will  not 
come  to  him?" 

Mr.  Fletcher  paused.  There  was  breathless  silence  for  a 
moment,  then  there  was  a  stir  far  back  near  the  door. 
The  congregation  moved,  looked  round,  and  murmured,  A 
woman's  figure  came  swiftly  down  the  aisle,  reached  the 
clear  space  before  the  platform — stood — wavered.  The 
next  moment  Myron  Holder  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  pros- 
trate as  a  novice  beneath  the  pall. 

Myron  Holder  and  the  Reverend  Fletcher  stood  alone  in 
the  empty  church.  Mrs.  Deans  waited  impatiently  out- 
side. Slie  had  never  dreamed  Mr.  Fletcher  Avould  treat 
her  thus!  The  noise  of  the  departing  congregation  was 
dying  away,  and  Mr.  Fletcher  was  carrying  out  a  stern 
resolution  he  had  made.  He  was  talking  to  Myron  Holder 
of  her  sin  and  its  enormity;  upbraiding  her  for  the  past, 
and  cautioning  her  against  the  future.  She  listened 
meekly,  admitting  her  sin  and  saying  no  single  word  in 
palliation  of  it.  He  was  giving  her  stern  advice  regard- 
ing her  attitude  towards  the  rest  of  the  village,  when  she 
interrupted  him  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  am  leaving  Jamestown  to-morrow,"  she  said. 

"What?"  said  Mr.  Fletcher. 

"  I  am  leaving  Jamestown  to  morrow,"  she  repeated. 

The  Reverend  Fletcher's  brow  grew  stern. 


292 


THE    UNTEMPERED   WIND 


"  Is  that  how  you  are  going  to  evidence  the  new  niercy 
you  have  found — by  going  out  into  the  world  to  deceive 
people?" 

"  I  will  deceive  no  one,"  she  said.  "I  can  do  nothing 
here.  In  winter  I  shall  have  to  go  on  the  township  again. 
I  must  go  to  earn  my  living." 

"  Evil  will  come  of  it.  Your  influence  will  not  be  for 
good.  You  will  spread  a  moral  pestilence.  Once  I  took 
a  long  journey  in  the  cars;  the  car  was  very  dirty,  and 
there  was  much  soot  and  smoke,  and  the  black  coat  I  wore 
absorbed  the  dust  and  grime.  Well,  it  lost  nothing  of  its 
good  appearance;  it  was  a  black  coat,  like  other  black 
coats — to  look  at.  But  listen !  One  day  soon  after,  in  a 
crowded  train,  I  sat  next  a  woman  with  a  white  dress  on. 
What  was  the  result?  Her  dress  was  smirched  and  dark- 
ened where  her  sleeve  touched  mine.  So  it  was  always. 
That  coat  deflled  everything  it  touched,  until  I  put  it  from 
me.  It  was  a  good  coat,  and  I  could  ill  afford  to  do  it, 
but  still  less  could  I  ^IgyH  to  pollute  whatever  I  touched. 
It  is  thus  with  you.  Out  of  evil,  evil  will  come.  We  do 
not  gather  figs  of  thistles.  Your  life  has  been  evil ;  your 
heart  is  bad.  Can  good  emanate  from  this?  You  will  go 
forth  to  the  world  in  fair  seeming,  no  trace  of  your  sin 
visible  to  the  eye,  and  yon  will  spread  the  contagion  of 
your  sin.  Listen  to  me,  Myron  Holder.  Do  not  dare  go 
forth  in  silence!  Do  not  dare  conceal  your  real  nature! 
Do  not  dare!  Say  to  each  man  and  woman  with  whom 
you  have  more  than  the  most  brief  association,  *Lo,  I  am 
one  who  has  sinned;  I  have  been  a  mother  but  not  a 
wifely- 
Myron  gazed  at  him  with  horror- wide  eyes.  His  were 
implacable. 

"Am  I  so  dreadful?"  she  said.  "Oh,  must  I  proclaim 
my  shame  aloud?" 


THE    UNTEMPERED  WIND 


293 


in  a 


were 
klaim 


/ 


"You  must,"  he  said.  "What!  Would  you  deny  your 
child  on  earth  and  hope  to  meet  him  in  Heaven?" 

She  let  fall  her  face  in  her  hands.  There  was  silence 
for  a  space,  then  she  raised  her  head. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  "  I  will  do  as  you  say." 

She  turned  from  his  side,  and  made  her  way  down  the 
church.  A  strange  and  new  distinction  of  manner  seemed 
to  have  enveloped  her — a  dignity  of  absolute  isolation. 
She  passed  through  the  door,  and  for  the  last  time  Mrs. 
Deans'  eyes  looked  into  hers.  That  steady  gaze  lasted 
some  seconds,  and  then  Myron  Holder  went  out  into  the 
night. 

But  in  that  last  meeting  of  eyes  Myron  Holder's  were 
not  the  ones  that  faltered.  As  Cain  went  forth  with  his 
curse,  did  his  eyes  fall  before  any  living  face?  He  was 
subject  only  to  fear  of  his  fate.  Myron  Holder  feared  only 
the  years  she  had  to  live. 

That  night,  in  her  cottage,  Myron  Holder  sat  sewing, 
fashioning  a  tiny  bag  out  of  one  of  My's  misshapen 
aprons.  When  completed,  she  put  something  carefully  in 
it  and  hung  it  round  her  neck,  concealing  it  beneath  her 
gown.  She  folded  up  her  few  articles  of  clean  clothing 
and  tied  them  up,  with  My's  little  tin  mug,  into  a  neat 
parcel.  She  took  a  last  look  around  the  silent  rooms,  and 
then  went  out,  closing  the  door  gently  behind  her,  as  if 
heedful  not  to  awaken  one  who  slept. 

All  along  the  little  path  voices  seemed  to  bear  her  com- 
pany :  the  voices  of  her  father,  her  grandmother.  Homer's 
strong,  tender  tones,  and  My's  uncertain  voice,  and  each 
awoke  a  loving  echo  in  her  heart — yes,  even  the  strident 
voice  of  her  grandmother.  They  each  and  all  whispered 
"Good-bye— Good-bye,"  save  the  little  child's:  that  was 
inarticulate,  and  babbled  but  of  childish  love  and  confi- 
dence. 


294 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


She  made  her  way  along  the  road  she  liad  trodden  so 
many  times  in  anguish.  She  reached  the  gr-veyard,  and 
there  held  her  last  vigil  by  the  side  of  My's  grave. 

The  stars  were  yet  in  the  sky — the  mysterious  stars  of 
morning  skies — when  she  rose  to  her  feet.  She  went  to 
each  of  the  other  graves  that  her  heart  held,  and  then 
came  back  to  this  one,  the  newest  and  smallest  of  the 
four.  She  looked  down  upon  it  with  the  pain  of  child- 
birth in  her  eyes,  then  up  to  the  "mindful  stars."  She 
turned  away  with  a  prayer  upon  her  lips — the  same 
in  which  was  uttered  her  agony  in  the  cottage ;  the  same 
prayer  that  had  faltered  from  her  lips  in  the  church — not 
"Lord— Lord,"  but  "My— My!" 

So  Myron  Holder  left  Jamestown,  and  with  her  we  leave 
it  also.  There  is  much  yet  that  might  be  told  of  the 
place — of  the  strange  death  that  befell  Bing  White;  of  the 
marriage  of  Gamaliel  Deans  to  Liz,  the  bound  girl ;  of  the 
penance  of  pain  that  was  m^eted  out  to  Mrs.  Deans  for  the 
evil  she  had  wrought;  of  how  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wilson  were 
turned  out  of  their  farm  by  those  of  their  children  who 
liad  so  pitied  them  whilst  Homer  lived;  of  how,  after  all, 
the  old  ragman  found  a  fortune  in  rags,  though  not  in 
the  way  he  had  dreamed  of;  of  how  the  new  church  wr.s 
built,  and  of  how  the  old  Holder  cottage  still  stands,  a 
ruin  airiid  its  garden,  peopled  only  by  sparrows;  of  how  a 
new  railway  runs  through  the  school  playground,  and 
banishes  the  buttercups  by  its  cinders  to  the  other  side  of 
the  broken-down  fence.  There  they  run  riot,  having 
spread  even  up  to  the  doorstep  of  the  old  cottage,  where 
they  cluster  about  the  roots  of  the  hopvines. 

There  have  been  many  changes  in  Jamestown — great 
factories  disfigure  the  margin  of  the  lake,  defile  the 
streams  with  their  refuse,  and  befoul  the  atmosphere  with 


■i 


THE    UN  TEMP  EKED  WIND  agj 

tlieir  smoke.  A  long  row  of  workmen's  cottages,  depress- 
mgly  alike  in  gable  and  window,  has  crowded  the  Black 
Horse  Inn  out  of  existence.  Its  old  bricks  pave  the  paths 
over  which  the  mill-hands  go  to  work;  the  last  vestige  of 
its  violets  has  vanished. 

The  hearts  of  the  Jamestown  women,  however,  have 
not  changed.  The  game  merciless  virtue  that  hounded 
Myron  Holder  pursues  the  poor  factory  girl  who  falters  on 
her  way.  The  same  pointing  fingers  sting  her  soul.  The 
same  condemnation,  the  same  cruelty,  the  same  scorn, 
greet  her  as  were  meted  out  to  Myron  Holder. 

In  the  olden  days  it  was  the  vestal  virgins,  charged 
with  keeping  alight  the  fires  that  burned  upon  the  altars 
sacred  to  home,  that  doomed  the  fallen  gladiator  to  death; 
their  inflexible  gesture  negatived  the  pleading  of  the 
upraised  hand.  There  is  no  single  instance  given  where 
they  exercised  the  power  of  pardon  vested  in  them.  And 
to-day  the  verdict  upon  the  fallen  comes  from  women  also; 
and  is  there  any  record  of  pardons? 

But,  0  women,  think  well  before  you  utter  a  harsh 
judgment!  Your  verdict  is  the  more  sacred  by  virtue  of 
being  pronounced  upon  your  own  sex,  for  woman  is  more 
nearly  allied  to  woman  than  man  to  man.  Each  woman  is 
linked  to  her  sister  women  by  the  indissoluble  bond  of  com- 
mon pain.  "For  men  must  work  and  women  must  weep" 
may  have  its  exceptions  as  to  men  who,  by  favoring  for- 
tune or  a  kindly  fate,  may  escape  their  heritage  of  labor; 
but  did  a  woman  ever  elude  her  birthright  of  tears? 

It  rests  with  women  whether  the  bitter  cup  these  un- 
happy ones  drink  be  brimmed  to  the  lip  or  not. 

Ah,  well!  there  are  many  Jam estowns,  and  many  women 
therein.  " By  their  Avorks  ye  shall  know  them." 
To  the  Jamestown   women   we  have   known    through 


THE    VMTE^4PERED  WIND 


their  treatment  of  Myron  Holder  )?re  say  farewell  gladly, 
only  asking  them — 

"HAVE  YE  DONE  WELL?  They  moulder  flesh  and  bone, 
Who  might  have  made  this  life's  envenomed  dream 
A  sweeter  draught  than  ye  shall  ever  taste,  I  deem.  " 


CIIAPTEU    XXIIT. 


"God  gives  him  painful  bread,  and  for  all  wine 
D(  th  feed  Iiim  on  sharp  salt  of  simple  tears, 
And  bitter  fast  of  blood.  " 

"  Come — pain  ye  shall  have  and  ])e  ))lind  to  the  ending ! 
Come — fear  ye  shall  have  'mid  the  sky's  overcasting ! 
Come — change  ye  shall  have,  for  far  are  ye  wending ! 
Come— no  crown  ye  shall  have  for  your  thirst  and  your  fasting  1 " 

Myron  Holder,  in  the  blue  garb  of  a  professional 
nurse,  stood  one  spring  morning  looking  out  of  one  of  the 
high  windows  in  the  great  hospital  where  she  worked. 
Three  years  had  passed  since  that  daybreak  when  she 
turned  her  back  on  Jamestown.  With  what  trembling, 
steps  she  had  made  her  way  to  town,  to  the  house  of  the 
doctor  who  had  attended  old  Mr.  Carroll  !  He  had 
suggested  to  her  the  vocation  of  professional  nursing, 
having  observed  her  natural  aptitude  for  it  when  she  was 
tending  Mr.  Carroll.  He  had  given  her  his  address,  and 
bade  her  come  to  him  if  she  decided  to  adopt  the  course 
he  had  indicated.  She  had  done  so,  and,  through  his 
recommendation,  she  had  obtained  admittance  to  this  hos- 
pital. Since  then  she  had  worked  and  studied  hard,  and 
had  gained  her  certificate  as  a  trained  nurse. 

She  had  gone  forth  from  Jamestown  "lonely  as  a  cloud,'' 
and  not  without  sorrow.    The  wild  flower  that  grows  by 


ill 


ladly, 


le, 


fasting!" 

ssional 
;  of  the 
vorked. 
len  she 
mbling, 
e  of  the 
e  had  ' 
ursing, 
she  was 
ss,  and 
course 
ugh  his 
his  hos- 
,rd,  and 

cloud,'* 
rrowsby 


■^ 


' 


THE    UNTEMPKKED   WIND 


297 


tho  bleakest  roadside  wilts  and  droops  for  a  time,  at 
least,  when  transplanted  to  even  the  most  sheltered  gar- 
den. Tiie  stunted  cedar,  clinging  to  a  crevice  in  tho 
granite,  drawing  its  meagre  juices  hardly  from  the  nig- 
gard soil,  yellows  and  dies  when  rciit  by  the  resistless  .viiid 
from  its  rocky  resting-place.  Tho  barrenness  of  tlie 
mountain-side  seems  kinder  to  it  than  tho  green  meadows 
to  which  it  is  hurled. 

For  some  little  time  Myron  was  bewildered  by  the 
strange  .world  which  she  had  entered,  but  it  did  not 
remain  long  strange;  it  soon  developed  familiar  phases. 

She  bore  forever  the  burden  of  tho  hateful  pledge  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Fletcher  had  wrung  from  her.  In  the  old, 
harsh  days  of  Puritanical  prudery  and  intolerance,  the 
Evil  Woman  bore  upon  her  breast  a  flamy  insignia  of 
shame — a  beacon  warning  all  not  to  trust  their  hopes  or 
fears  or  joys  to  that  perfidious  bosom  which  had  been 
false  to  its  own  womanhood,  a  something  which  could  be 
seen  afar  off,  a  mute,  yet  eloquent,  cry:  "Unclean — 
Unclean!" 

But  the  milder  methods  of  modern  Christianity  were 
far  different.  They  fastened  no  physical  sign  of  degra- 
dation upon  tho  object  of  their  righteous  wrath;  no 
burning  letter  or  brand.  Hers  was  no  torch  of  shame  to 
light  the  beholder  to  other  paths  than  that  which  lay  by 
her  side. 

Hawthorne's  stately  Evil  Woman  bore  an  implacable 
face  above  that  fatal  mark;  strode  upon  her  way  with 
"the  stern  step  of  vanquished  will,"  defied  by  her  mien 
her  accusers  and  her  judges.  Upon  her  countenance 
was  writ  in  all  the  varied  hieroglyphics  of  tint  and 
expression,  line  and  curve,  the  story  of  her  passion  and 
her  shame. 

Kot  80  this  humble  village  outcast.    Her  mien  showed 


•} 


ill 


agS 


THE    UN  TEMP  EKED  IIJXD 


H 


ratlier  the  tender  sorrow  of  ii  face  created  for  tears — a 
face  wlioso  lips  held  pain  enough  prisoned  behind  their 
paleness  to  wail  the  woe  of  the  whole  world ;  eyes  which 
liad  looked  at  death  unllinchiu'^ly  througii  the  pangs  of 
the  sublimest  torture  wonuinhood  knows  rather  than 
betray  the  coward  who  had  forsaken  her;  eyes  which  had 
looked  at  misery  aiul  pain,  sult'eriiig  and  deatli,  so  often 
that  they  seemed  to  have  lost  the  power  of  rcllecting  aught 
else;  eyes  which  held  in  their  dcpilis  nothing  but  the 
resignation,  despair,  and  the  settled  purpose  of  undeviating 
will.  Sometimes,  when  the  child  was  alive,  there  had 
shone  in  their  depths  varying  shadows;  then  there  were 
moments  when  she  allowed  herself  to^vishand  hope  and 
fear.  I^ut  that  was  past,  just  as  was  her  mad  rebellion 
against  his  death. 

Such  was  Myron  Holder — meek,  quiet,  hopeless;  bear- 
ing the  burden  ini  posed  upon  her  by  convention's  unsparing, 
if  righteous,  hand.  Men,  looking  at  her,  instinctively  felt 
their  own  vileness;  and  women  saw  in  her  a  refuge  from 
their  own  weakness  and  sins  until  they  knew  of  hers; 
then,  rejoicing  that  they  yet  had  power  to  wound  some- 
thing, crucified  her  afresh.  Many  a  time  her  heart  bled 
from  tings  implanted  by  lips  she  had  moistened  night 
after  night.  Many  a  time  her  face  flushed  before  the 
scorn  expressed  in  eyes  that  would  have  been  forever 
darkened  but  for  her  untiring  skill  and  patience. 

Truly,  to  lay  npon  this  woman  the  task  of  avowing  lier 
guilt  to  each  human  being  who  should  ever  look  upon  her 
with  kindly  tolerance  wjis  a  measure  that  the  old  Puritans 
would  not  have  adopted.  The  stake  had  not  receded  quite 
so  far  into  the  dim  perspective  of  the  past  as  it  has  now; 
and  if  they  had  deemed  her  worthy  of  the  supremest  tor- 
iure,  they  would  probably  have  chosen  the  more  merciful 
flames. 


THE    UNTEMrERED   WIXD 


899 


)\\  her 
•itans 
quite 
now ; 
It  tor- 
Ire  if  nl 


^^yro»l  itidciHl  stood  within  tlic  sluuhjw  of  tlic  'TOHd. 
l»iit  it  must  be  rernemhcrcd  tljjit  whilst  the  cross  has  licen 
tlie  emblem  of  miK^h  mercy,  it  was  also  the  symbol  beneath 
whicli  the  Intjiiisition  sat  in  council.  It  must  be  eon- 
ceded  that  the  Church  is  not  very  lenient  with  women. 
We  remember  its  attitude  when  chloroform  was  intniducejl. 

The  mercy  tliat  the  llevercnd  Mr.  Fletr^  »•  had  prof- 
fered Myron  Holder  was  much  like  the  salt  tiuit  Eastern 
torturers  rub  into  the  wounds  of  their  victims. 

There  was  little  to  be  seen  from  the  high  window  where 
Myron  stood — the  topmost  branches  of  a  horse-(;hestnut 
tree  just  leafing  out;  a  wide  arch  of  gray-blue  sky;  and, 
far  off,  a  confused  mass  of  chimneys,  where  tlie  city  lay 
beneath  its  veil  of  smoke. 

But  Myron  was  not  thinking  of  the  busy  city,  of  the 
tapping  chestnut  boughs,  nor  even  of  the  overspan  of 
pellucid  sky.  Slie  was  thinking  of  a  cruel,  sordid,  bab- 
bling little  village  and  of  the  silent,  unkempt  field  wherein 
its  dead  lay.  ller  musings  were  interrputed  by  the  ring- 
ing of  a  bell.  She  turned  and  hastened  from  the  room — 
blue-clad,  white-capped,  capable — to  find  a  new  patient 
had  arrived  in  her  ward;  a  new  patient,  with  thin,  broad, 
stooped  shoulders,  overhanging  pent-house  brow,  sad  and 
secret,  above  sunken  gray  eyes  that  shone  with  unalterable 
love  for  mankind ;  a  patient  who,  when  he  saw  her  coming, 
held  out  his  hands  and  whispered  "Myron — Myron!" 
and  gave  her  such  a  look  as  banished  all  the  bitterness  of 
her  barren  belief  and  again  bestowed  the  blessed  benedic- 
tion of  peace. 

Thus  Philip  Hardman  and  Myron  Holder  met  again. 

Philip  Hardman  was  no  longer  a  recognized  minister  of 
the  Church.  His  doubts  had  grown  too  strong  for  his 
belief,  or  his  beliefs  had  grown  greater  than  his  creed;  and 
he  had  gone  forth  from  the  church  to  become  an  itinerant 


■■■  »H,- 


300 


THE    UN  TEMPERED   WIND 


preucJier,  like  the  iiuin  Christ  Jesus,  lie  was  miserably 
uncertain  and  unsettled. 

Little  bands  of  devotees  gathered  about  him  in  every 
town  he  visited.  They  were  those  who  were  mentally 
maimed,  or  halt,  or  blind;  those  whose  aspirations 
exceeded  their  capabilities;  those  in  whose  hearts  a  ncvcr- 
healing  sore  throbbed  in  unison  with  the  suffering  of  man- 
kind; those  who  were,  like  Philip  Ilardman,  striving  to 
flee  from  the  wrath  to  come  and  found  themselves  bewil- 
dered amid  the  crossways.  His  followers  were,  in  all 
places,  strangely  alike.  They  gathered  to  him  gradually, 
and  when  he  left  they  scattered.  There  was  no  unity  of 
purpose  among  them,  no  common  determination  toward 
one  end,  to  bind  them  together. 

The  Western  worlds  are  not  ready  yet  for  those  creed- 
less,  formless.  Eastern  dortrines  of  Universal  Love.  Poor 
Philip  Ilardman,  in  an  Oriental  world,  would  have  made 
an  excellent  devotee,  to  dream  away  his  years  in  s])iritual 
abstraction  with  the  best  of  them ;  nay,  he  might  even  have 
found  courage  to  release  his  soul  by  fire  from  its  earthly 
charnel  like  the  old  East  Indians;  but  he  made  a  poor 
minister;  he  was  a  good  enough  2)rcachei\  eloquent 
enough,  and  earnest  enough,  pitiful  towards  others,  mer- 
ciless to  himself;  but,  constantly  bewildered  by  the  indefi- 
niteness  of  his  own  aspirations,  he  could  not  minister  any 
healing  balm  to  the  sorrows  he  deplored. 

He  never  felt  awkward  nor  constrained  with  his  follow- 
ers, only  desperately  unhappy.  They  looked  to  him  for  a 
messtige,  and  he  had  none  to  give  them ;  he  raised  hopes  in 
their  breasts  which  he  could  not  justify;  held  out  a  cup 
which  proved  empty  when  thirsty  lips  drew  near. 

When  he  left  a  town  he  was  haunted  for  days  by  the 
yearning  eyes  ho  had  left  unlit  by  hope;  yet  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  desert  the  cross  utterly,  for 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


301 


w  tbo 
id  not 


"  Ever  on  the  fafnt  and  flagging  air 
,  A  doleful  spirit  with  a  dreary  note 

Cried  in  his  fearful  ear,  'Prepare — Prepare  ! ' " 

So  he  had  stumbled  on,  the  strong  in  him  strong  only 
to  discern  the  needs,  the  wants,  the  sadness  and  cruelty 
of  the  world,  not  strong  enough  to  evolve  a  creed  of  Truth 
to  alleviate  its  misery;  the  weak  in  him  only  weak  enough 
to  make  him  shrink  from  givijig  up  utterly  the  old  dogmas 
that  hampered  his  hands,  not  weak  enough  to  permit  him 
to  steep  himself  in  scriptural  ease  and  spend  all  his  time 
striving  to  save  his  own  miserable  soul. 

Hardman  had  come  to  the  charity  ward  of  the  hospital  to 
be  treated  for  that  common  and  troublesome  disease  famil- 
iarly known  as  "  preacher's  sore  throat."  It  was  a  very  nat- 
ural result  of  speaking  night  after  night  in  all  sorts  of 
weathers  in  the  open  air.  I  le  had  persisted  in  his  preaching, 
however,  until  his  voice  had  become  attenuated  almost  to  a 
whisper;  then  suddenly  realizing  the  gravity  of  his  case,  he 
had  lied  to  thr  hospital  in  a  panic.  Myron's  post  was  in 
the  charity  ward,  by  far  the  most  arduous  department  in 
the  hospital.    Thus  Hardman  came  directly  under  her  care. 

Relieved  from  the  nervous  excitement  of  his  occupation, 
Hardman 's  fictitious  strength  suddenly  collapsed,  and, 
having  squandered  his  resources  recklessly,  he  was  now 
left  with  very  little  stamina  to  fall  back  upon.  But 
Myron  tended  him  night  and  day,  throwing  into  her 
efforts  all  the  determination  of  her  strong  nature;  and, 
little  by  little,  she  conquered.  Philip  Hardman  himself 
had  been  as  passive  during  the  struggle  as  a  bone  for  which 
two  dogs  fight;  but  after  the  fever  left  him  he  began  to 
realize  how  nearly  his  doubts  and  surmises  had  been  all 
solved,  and  looking  at  Myron's  weary  face  read  in  a 
moment  all  the  meaning  of  its  weariness.  From  that  time 
Jj^r  c^re  wag  seconded  by  his  eager  desire  for  health. 


''  ' 


IS; 


m\ 


Ml 


til 


111  I    I 


lii  ! 


202 


T//£   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


Then  there  fell  upon  those  two  that  strange  enchant- 
ment which  entered  the  world  when  the  first  bird  sang  its 
first  love  song,  which  will  endure  till  "  the  last  bird  fiy 
into  the  last  night." 

"  What  time  the  mighty  moon  was  gathering  light, 

Love  paced  the  thymy  plots  of  Paradise.  "  ' 

What  strange  paths  he  has  trodden  since  then!  What 
devious  ways  he  has  threaded !  What  strait  gates  he 
has  entered!  Upon  how  many  sandy  shores  he  has  left 
his  immortal  footprints!  For  all  the  oceans  of  human 
life,  all  its  flood  tides  of  hope,  ftU  i't'  ebb  tides  of  despair, 
cannot  efface  them.  Let  I-ove  once  set  his  signet  seal  upon 
a  brow,  and  all  the  gilding  of  glory,  all  the  blackness  of 
shame,  the  rose  wreath  nor  the  crown  of  thorns — nay,  even 
Death  itself — cannot  blot  it  out. 

Life — Love — Death — the  true  Trinity,  teaching  all 
things,  could  we  but  decipher  them.  Of  Life  we  know 
the  ending;  of  Death,  the  beginning;  of  Love,  nothing* 
It  springs  without  sowing,  and  bears  many  harvests.  To 
these  two  lonely  souls  it  brought  a  gift  of  "  unhoped,  great 
delight." 

"Love,  that  all  things  doth  redress,  ■  .Lted  out  for  a 
space  the  toil  and  moil  of  their  lives.  T^  ardman  told 
Myron  how  he  had  loved  her  ever  since  he  saw  her ;  told 
her  how  her  name  had  been  mentioned  in  every  prayer  hie 
lips  had  uttered  since  he  left  Jamestown ;  told  her  how  ho 
had  written  to  her,  and  of  how  the  letter  had  been,  aftev 
many  days,  returned  to  him  from  the  Dead  Letter  Office, 
Myron  smiled  a  little  at  that;  she  understood  so  well  the 
pang  it  must  have  cost  Mrs.  Warner  to  return  it.  Indeed, 
Mrs.  Warner  (who  was  postmaster  in  Jamestown)  had 
Duffered  real  tortures  of  curiosity  and  kept  the  letter  twice 
the  regulation  time  before  she  sent  it  to  the  Dead  Letter 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


303 


hant- 
ng  its 
rdfly 


What 
;e8  he 
as  left 
liuman 
espair, 
il  upon 
nesB  of 
,y,  even 

ing    all 
e  know 
lothing* 
ts.     To 
d,  great 
• 
at  for  a 
lan  told 
ler;  told 
:ayer  hie 
•  how  ho 
en,  aftev 
jr  Office, 
well  the 
Indeed, 
wn)  had 
ter  twice 
id  Letter 


Office.  But  "The  Government"  was  a  vague  and  awful 
power  in  Mrs.  Warner's  eyes,  and,  as  she  expressed  it  to 
her  husband,  "  You  never  know  what  it  knows,  and  what 
it  don't." 

Philip  did  not  tell  Myron  about  his  doubts,  nor  that  he 
had  voluntarily  forfeited  his  standing  in  the  orthodox 
church.  And  she  did  not  tell  him  of  the  promise  that  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Fletcher  had  exacted  from  her.  Perhaps  it 
was  this  mutual  reticence  that  wrecked  them.  But  for  a 
short  space  they  were  indeed  happy. 

But  as  Philip  grew  stronger  the  inevitable  problem  of 
the  future  presented  itself. 

Philip  asked  Myron  one  day  if  she  had  attended  the 
rest  of  the  meetings  after  he  left  Jamestown. 

"  Yes,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  a  Christian." 

That  calm  statement  of  hers  seemed  to  impose  an 
impassable  barrier  between  them.  She  had  attained  the 
peace  he  had  lost.  She  held  fast  the  hope  that  he  was  all 
but  relinquishing.  She  was  strong  in  the  faith  in  which 
he  was  so  weak. 

Sho  told  him  of  her  first  struggle  in  the  hospital;  of  the 
difficulty  she  had  had  in  mastering  the  "  book  learning"  of 
her  profession ;  of  the  weariness  she  endured  and  the  hope- 
lessness she  had  overcome;  and,  listening,  he  thought  his 
heart  would  break.  How  could  he  take  from  her  the  Faith 
that  had  made  this  possible?  How  deprive  her  of  the 
inspiration  that  kept  her  worthy?  Poor  Philip  Hardman 
thought  he  had  alienated  himself  from  his  church  utterly; 
but  he  had  in  no  wise  cast  off  its  bonds;  he  still  clung  to 
the  enervating  doctrine  of  dependence  upon  supernatural 
help,  and  could  not  realize  that  in  Myron's  womanhood 
alone  lay  the  strength,  the  purity  of  purpose,  and  the 
endurance  that  had  brought  her  thus  far  upon  her  way. 

Sometimes  he  wondered  if  it  were  possible  that  he  could 


304 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


^ 


ti  I! 


pass  the  cup  from  lip  to  lip,  and  the  morsel  from  mouth 
to  mouth,  ami  yet  be  himself  athirst  and  hungry.  Now 
and  then  the  thought  came  to  him  that  lie  was  but  suffer- 
ing from  some  spiritual  sickness  tiiat  would  pass  from  him 
like  a  physical  disease,  and  leave  him  weak,  perhaps,  but 
safe  in  his  old  beliefs.  When  he  thought  of  this,  he  pic- 
tured himself  in  his  old  position  as  minister  and  wondered 
if  to  marry  Myron  would  conserve  the  interests  of  his 
Faith.  This  was  the  one  unworthy  thought  of  which 
he  was  guilty.  The  man  was  weak,  but  this  was  shame- 
ful. 

It  seems  incredible  to  us  that  this  man,  having,  as  he 
knew,  this  woman's  hapinness  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand, 
loving  her  as  he  undoubtedly  did,  should  have  hesitated. 
Had  he  fully  understood  the  conditions  of  her  life,  it  is 
impossible  to  believe  he  would  have  done  so;  but  so  few 
of  us  know  each  other  "face  to  face." 

And  Philip  Hardman  was  very  humble  in  his  estimate 
of  himself.  He  did  not  allow  himself  to  thi:nV  that  his 
life  would  compensate  to  Myron  Holder  for  the  spiritual 
benefits  she  might  lose  by  marrying  him.  Indeed,  this 
poor,  tossed  soul  sometimes  recalled  with  a  shudder  that 
mysterious  Sin  for  which  there  is  no  forgiveness,  and  won- 
dered if  he  had  been  guilty  of  it;  then  he  trembled  when 
Myron  Holder  approached  lest  she  be  contaminated. 

It  seems  this  poor  man  was  incapable  of  understanding 
the  true  beauty  of  Love.  So  that  now  he  would  wonder 
if  Myron  Holder  as  his  wife  would  stultify  his  efforts  for 
the  Faith,  and  presently  tremble  lest  he  drag  her  down  to 
the  perdition  he  feared.  At  this  juncture  he  deliberately 
shifted  the  burden  from  his  own  shoulders  to  those  of 
Myron  Holder.  He  asked  her  to  decide,  expressing  his 
pwn  love  for  her  and  saying  tenderly : 

"And  you,  Myron,  you  love  me?" 


THE   V^TEMPERED  WWD 


305 


mouth 
Now 
siiffer- 
n  liim 
)s,  but 
;e  pic- 
iidered 
of  his 
which 
shame- 

,  [IS  he 
;  hand, 
litatcd. 
e,  it  is 
so  few 

itiniate 
iiat  his 
liritual 
[1,  this 
|r  that 
won- 
wheii 

Inding 
louder 
ks  for 
to 
:ately 
Ise  of 
his 


She  only  looked  her  answer,  but  the  eloquence  of  her 
look  seemed  to  argue  and  decide  the  whole  case. 

.  This  conversation  occurred  in  the  morning.  In  the 
evening,  just  as  dusk  fell,  Myron  came  to  the  ward  and  sat 
by  him  for  a  little  space.  Now  that  the  burden  was 
shifted  off  his  own  shoulders  Philip  felt  calm  and  happy. 

He  lay  long,  and  gazed  upon  her  as  she  sat  beside  him, 
gathered  the  tender  strength  of  her  face,  the  swet  t  woman- 
liness of  her  form,  the  resolution  and  patience  that  made 
bright  her  brow,  and  noted  all  the  beauty  of  her  eyes.  He 
pictured  their  future  life  together;  he  thought  of  her 
sitting  by  him  in  the  twilight;  of  her  bidding  him  good- 
bye in  the  morning;  of  her  welcoming  him  at  night;  he 
thought  of  her  looking  up  at  him  in  the  pauses  of  some 
household  task;  he  imagined  her  eyes  as  they  would  turn 
to  him  for  guidance;  he  dreamed  of  their  comfort  when 
he  looked  to  them  for  love.  He  thought  of  all  these 
things,  and  then  abased  himself  before  the  vision  of  a  holy, 
patient  face, — the  face  of  the  mother  of  his  child. 

'Mid  these  thoughts  speech  does  not  find  ready  way. 
They  were  together  silent,  hand  in  hand. 

The  time  came  for  Myron  to  go.  It  was  almost  dark  in 
the  ward,  and  an  angled  screen  hid  them  from  view. 

"  Myron,"  whispered  Philip,  and  looked  at  her  pleadingly. 

She  looked  at  him — her  head  sank  near  his — he  kissed 
her — her  lips  were  trembling.  He  passed  an  arm  about 
her  shoulder  and  gave  her  a  tender,  reassuring  pressure. 

"I  will  know  in  the  morning?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  and  turned  to  leave  him.  She 
hesitated  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  then  turned  toward 
him  again.  "Good-night,"  she  said.  "Good-night, 
Philip." 

Then  she  turned  and  went  swiftly  from  the  ward,  pass- 
ing the  night  nurse  at  the  door. 


1 


l-i 


t 


506 


THE   UNTEAfPERED  WIND 


I 


I  m 


Hardman  felt  a  moisture  on  his  hand,  the  hand  she  ha^ 
held  as  she  said  "  Good-night." 

"  She  was  crying,  bless  her,  and  I  never  knew  it,"  he 
thought. 

He  soon  slept.  It  would  seem  that  he  was  content  so 
long  as  Myron  made  the  decision  and  thus  relieved  him 
from  the  responsibility  and  consequences  of  doing  so. 
Well,  we  cannot  tell.  "  The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitter- 
ness," and  it  is  not  for  us  to  judge  Hardman.  But  whilst 
withholding  judgment  upon  him  we  need  not  spare  to  pity 
Myron,  who,  prone  upon  the  narrow  couch  in  the  bare 
dormitory,  was  face  to  face  with  her  own  soul. 

Whilst  Hardman  slept,  having  cast  off  his  burden, 
she  was  tasting  the  bitterness  of  death.  Myron  Holder's 
agony  would  have  indeed  bewildered  him  could  he  have 
witnessed  it.  It  was  in  such  strong  contrast  to  the  peace 
of  that  perfect  hour  just  past.  He  could  not  have  realized 
the  battle  Myron  had  done  with  herself,  her  tears,  her 
fears,  whilst  she  sat  by  him;  and  he  comforted  himself 
with  visions  of  an  illusive  future.  Alas!  Poor  Myron — 
poor  Hardman !  Not  for  them  was  "  The  House  of  Fulfill- 
ment of  Craving,"  not  for  them  the  "Cup  with  the  roses 
around  it." 

We  cannot  trace  step  by  step  the  progress  of  the 
struggle. 

"A  sign— a  signl"  she  cried  in  her  pain.  "Oh,  what 
shall  I  do?" 

It  was  at  midnight  when  the  sign  was  given  her  and 
the  path  pointed  out.  The  clock  in  her  room  had  just 
struck  twelve  when  the  electric  bell  at  her  bedside  rang, 
summoning  her  downstairs.  She  rose  hastily,  and  quickly 
dashing  a  little  cold  water  in  her  face,  assumed  her  cap 
and  hurried  out.  She  found  the  entire  staff  of  nurses 
assembling.      They  were  gathering    about  the    medical 


slie  had 

'  it,"  he 

ntent  so 
ived  him 
niig  so. 
n  bitter- 
it  whilst 
e  to  pity 
the  bare 

burden, 

Holder's 

he  have 

;he  peace 

realized 

;ars,  her 

himself 
yiyron — 

Fulfill- 
he  roses 

of    the 

|h,  what 

ler  and 

[ad  just 

|e  rang, 

jqaickly 

ler  cap 

nurses 

ledical 


r/i£  UNTEMPERED  WIND 


iOf 


officer  in  charge  of  the  hospital.  He  held  a  telegram  in 
his  hand.  When  they  had  all  come,  he  read  it  aloud. 
It  was  brief.  An  urgent  appeal  from  a  quarantine  station 
asking  for  volunteer  nurses  for  cholera  patients.  The 
doctor  read  it  and  waited.  The  little  crowd  of  women 
before  him  murmured  confusedly.  Some  faces  reddened, 
some  paled.  The  doctor  read  the  telegram  again,  and 
said  quietly: 

"  The  need  is  urgent,  but  I  advise  no  one.  If,  how- 
ever, any  of  you  will  go,  she  must  be  ready  in  an  hour. 
The  express  leaves  then." 

He  paused.  There  was  no  answer.  His  face  paled  a 
little.  He  had  been  very  proud  of  his  intrepid  nurses, 
this  doctor,  and  somehow,  in  this  time  of  triU,  they 
seemed  about  to  be  found  wanting. 

"As  soon  as  each  one  makes  up  her  mind,"  he  said, 
"she  will  return  to  her  duties  or  acquaint  me  with  her 
determination  to  go." 

The  group  before  him  parted  as  if  by  a  single  impulse, 
each  seeking  to  escape  unseen  to  her  place.  Only  one 
came  forward  quietly,  and  said  steadily : 

"  I  will  go,  sir,  if  you  will  let  me." 

The  departing  ones  stayed  their  steps  and  listened. 

"  It  is  Nurse  Myron,"  they  said  to  each  other. 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  catching  one  of  these  remarks, 
"it  is  Nurse  Myron,  of  whom  you  have  made  a  pariah. 
Go  back  to  your  duties,  please."  His  voice,  usually  so 
gentle,  was  stern  and  peremptory.     They  went. 

An  hour  later,  Myron  Holder  left  the  hospital.  As  she 
camedoivn  from  the  dormitory,  clad  in  the  blue  serge  gown 
with  its  cape  and  close-fitting  hat,  she  went  into  the 
charity  ward.  Quietly  she  stole  along  its  length  until  she 
came  to  the  bed  in  the  corner.     A  straight  shaft  of  moon- 


30^ 


TfTK  VA'TfJrr£fiED  U'lA'D 


light  fell  upon  the  pillow.  It  made  visible  all  tho 
strength  and  beauty  of  Ilardman's  brow  and  showed  all 
the  sweetness  of  his  mouth,  all  the  kindly  expression  of 
his  face.  His  brow  was  placid;  his  lips  smiled.  To  the 
woman's  eyes  there  was  nothing  weak,  nothing  cowardly, 
in  the  man  before  her.     He  was  her  saint  among  men. 

"He  will  know  in  the  morning,"  she  said.  The  doctor 
beckoned  from  the  door.  She  murmured  again,  "  He  will 
know  in  the  morning,"  and  so  bade  him  an  eternal  fare- 
well. 

•  ••••• 

Next  morning  Philip  Hardmau  learned  from  the  doc- 
tor of  Myron's  act. 

"  The  nurses  say  you  are  a  minister,  and  that  she  loved 
you,"  said  the  doctor.  "  If  praying  is  your  trado,  pray  for 
her,  man;  she  has  need  of  it."  Then  he  passed  on.  Ho 
was  a  little  bitter  and  stern,  the  good  doctor,  that 
morning. 

There  comes  a  time  to  some  of  us, 


"  When  happy  dreams  havo  just  gone  by 
And  left  us  without  remedy 
Within  the  unpitying  hands  of  life.  " 

Those  of  us  who  have  lived  through  such  an  hour  can 
understand  what  had  come  to  Philip  Hardman.  He  saw 
now  clearly  what  he  ought  to  have  done,  but  it  was  too 
late.  He  tried  to  comfort  himself  with  the  hope  that  she 
would  come  back,  and  then^  he  told  himelf,  no  power  in 
earth  or  heaven  should  come  between  them. 

How  vain  this  hope  was  the  event  proved ;  but  it  was 
well  he  had  it  at  the  moment,  else  his  self-reproach  would 
have  been  too  poignant.  As  it  was,  his  fever  returned  and 
it  was  many  days  before  he  heard  his  last  tidings  of  Myron 


Hoved 
ray  for 
L  lie 
thut 


|r  can 
|e  saw 

is  too 
it  she 
rer  in 


It  was 
f^ould 
and 
lyron 


"he  will  know  in  the  morning." 


Tf/E  Uf/TE^fPEKED  trLVD  ^^g 

Holder      He  was  told,  and  lived.     That  is  all  we  need  say 
or  care  to  hear  of  Philip  Ifardrnan. 

"I^tjrplext  in  faith,  hut  pure  in  deeds, 
At  last  he  beat  his  music  out.  " 


OIIAPTEK  XXIV. 

"  Death  conies  to  set  thee  free, 
Oh,  meet  him  cheerily 

As  thy  true  friend  ; 
Tlien  all  thy  cares  shall  cease 
And  in  eternal  neace 

Tliy  penance  end.  " 

"Even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  the  sea.  " 

The  arrival  of  the  new  nurse  had  been  announced  to  the 
doctor  in  charge  of  the  quarantine  station.     He  waited 
for  her  coming   in   his  office.      She   entered   the  room 
paused  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  and  then  came 
forward.     The  light,  to  which  his  back  was  turned,  fell 
full  upon  her  face,-a  face  devoid  of  bitterness  as  it  was 
of  joy      Her  form,  clad  in  the  regulation  nurse's  garb  of 
blue,  showed  in  strong  relief  against  the  unpainted  pine 
walls  of  the  great  doctor's  office-a  somewhat  broad,  low 
figure,    not    slight,   nor    lissome,    Imt    most    eloquently 
womanly.     Her  lips  parted  in  a  question  which  he  did  not 

Time  had  gone  back  with  him.  He  stood  upon  a  jut- 
ting  ledge  of  rock,  which  from  the  ridge  hung  out  into 
the  blue.  He  was  alone,  and  waiting-waiting  with  every 
faculty  of  his  will  strained  to  the  utmost;  looking  through 


?IV 


310 


THE  UXTEMPERED  WIND 


a  parting  in  the  loaves  between  tlie  trec-trnnl\S,  Tie  wjiteliecl 
for  a  girl's  figure.  Far  away  there  was  a  gliiinner  of 
water;  somewhere  a  village  band  was  praetisiiig,  but  dis- 
tance deadened  all  sound  from  it  save  the  throb  of  the 
heavy  drum  which  pulsed  through  the  air  and  seemed  to 
add  motion  to  the  heavy,  odorous  vai)or  of  the  summer 
night  and  send  it  eddying  np  in  perfumed  waves  about 
the  craggy  jdatform.  Then  he  saw  one  coming,  flushed, 
and  "foot  gilt  with  all  the  blossom  dust"  of  wild  venollia, 
ileabane  and  spent  moondaisies.  And  then  he  held  once 
more  a  trembling  maiden  form  within  his  clasp.  Again 
from  out  the  hollow  of  his  arm  there  looked  up  at  him  two 
eyes  of  clearest,  purest  glance.  Again  he  dwelt  upon  the 
smooth  forehead  with  its  faint  upraised  brows.  Again  he 
Ivissed  the  white  throat  bent  outward  like  a  singing  bird's, 
as  her  head  rested  against  1  and  her  eyes  met  his. 
Again  he  saw  those  eyes  grow  ymxi  and  moist.  Again  he 
felt  the  encircled  form  tremble.  Again  he  stilled  the 
appealing  lips  with  a  kiss.  Again  he  vowed  eternal  faith. 
Again  he  heard  her  say — 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  my  duties?"  the 
new  nurse  was  saying,  in  low,  strained  tones,  in  a  voice 
without  modulation  and  suggestive  of  reiteration. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked,  with  unstrung  joints. 

"  I  am  Myron  Holder,"  she  said,  and  looked  at  him. 

Her  lips  did  not  quiver.  Her  cheeks  did  not  flush. 
Her  eyes  did  not  falter.  All  the  majesty  of  a  wronged 
womanhood  shone  upon  her  brow.  Her  glance  spoke  of  a 
dignity  far  beyond  the  gift  of  man,  above  the  world's 
honor — a  dignity  bought  at  a  terrible  price  and  sealed  with 
a  terrible  seal  of  loneliness  and  separation. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  and  leaned  upon  the  table  at  his  side, 
mentally  acknowledging  the  strength  of  her  presence.  "  I 
am  Henry  Willis,"  he  said.     "  Did  you  knov/  me?" 


THE    UNTEMrERKD   ll'/XD 


311 


"I 


"I  recognized  you  when  I  came  into  the  room,"  alio 
answered,  in  u  monotonous  tone. 

There  was  a  pause,  ller  eyes  rested  upon  him  unwav- 
eringly, and  sent  from  tlieir  deptlis  intolerable  meanings 
of  contempt  and  righteous  indignation  and  hopeless 
reproach. 

He  came  a  step  nearer. 

"  Let  mo—"  he  began.  She  stepped  back— her  nostrils 
dilated.  ' 

"  Would  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  my  duties?"  she 
said. 

"  Tell  me  how  you  came  here. " 

"I  am  Nurse  Myron,"  she  said,  and  uttered  no  further 

word. 

He  waited  in  a  silence  she  did  not  break. 

"  If  you  will  come  with  me,"  he  said  at  length.  *' 

She  signified  her  acquiescence  and  followed  him. 

Days  passed— long  days  and  nights  which  seemed  to 
outlast  eternity  in  their  dreary  passage.  Day  by  day  the 
nurses  and  physicians  did  battle  with  the  foul  pestilential 
scourge  they  were  striving  to  stifle.  The  great  ')r.  Willis, 
the  eminent  bacteriologist,  peered  and  pried  incessantly 
over  his  gelatin  films,  striving  to  win  the  secret  of  infec- 
tion and  its  origin  from  the  minute  particles  of  matter  he 
held  prisoned  there.  But  yet  more  earnestly  did  he 
strive  to  learn  the  secret  of  one  strong,  brave  soul,  but 
in  vain. 

The  quality  Dr.  Willis  most  admired,  respected  and  un- 
derstood was  Will,  but  here  it  reigned  in  such  transcendent 
strength  that  he  stood  appalled  before  it.  From  that 
moment  of  retrospect  and  recognition  he  had  awakened 
with  a  galling  sense  of  his  own  inferiority.  Never  before 
had  Henry  Willis  owned  the  domination  of  a  living  will. 
J^ow  the  wid^  earth  held  no  sweetness,  all  his  achievements 


312 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


•f 


It/'    : 


t- 


m  !i!i 


no  triumph  for  him,  unless  he  could  once  more  possess  the 
woman  who  had,  so  long  ago,  been  wholly  his. 

They  worked  side  by  side.  As  the  cases  multiplied,  and 
two  of  the  men  nurses  were  stricken  with  the  disease, 
Henry  Willis  perforce  threw  aside  his  experiments  and 
flung  himself  into  the  fray.  Day  by  day  f,aw  these  two 
drawn  closer  and  closer  together  by  the  exigencies  of  their 
peculiar  and  dreadful  position.  No  more  volunteers  were 
forthcoming.  The  force  in  the  quarantine  station  was 
weakening.  The  physician,  albeit  wiry  and  of  an  iron 
physique,  was  pale  and  thin. 

Myron  Holder's  strong  frame  and  bravo  heart  were  giving 
way;  only  her  will  sustained  each.  Her  eyes  shone  neither 
steadily  nor  calmly  now,  but  burned  with  desperate  courage. 

Dr.  Willis  came  to  her  one  day  with  a  newspaper  cou- 
tnining  reports  of  their  work.  The  names  of  Dr.  Henry 
Willis  and  Nurse  Myron  were  coupled  with  honorable  and 
enduring  encomiums.  She  read  it  standing  in  the  corridor 
before  his  office  door.  As  she  read  and  gathered  the 
import  of  the  words,  a  change  overspread  her  face.  Her 
eyes,  of  late  so  hot  and  dr^,  grew  moist;  her  lips  trem- 
bled ;  from  brow  to  chin  the  color  flushed  her  face,  bring- 
ing back  to  it  all  the  charm  of  a  crushed  and  subordinate 
womanhood.  She  read  the  article  over  and  looked  him 
full  in  the  face. 

"My  name  is  here  and  yours,"  she  said.  Then,  in  a 
voice  which  had  burst  from  its  shackles  at  last,  and  rang 
out  clear  and  high,  "  They  should  be  read  above  the  grave 
of  a  nameless  child. " 

She  paused  a  moment— long  enough  for  the  man  before 
her  to  gather  the  meaning  of  her  words — long  enough  to 
allow  memory  to  whelm  her  own  heart  and  break  it  at  last, 
and  then  she  sank  upon  the  floor,  weeping  and  crying 
J  ioud  for  her  dead  child. 


sess  the 

ed, and 
disease, 
its  and 
3ge  two 
3f  their 
rs  were 
on  was 
m  iron 

giving 
neither 
jurage. 
)r  con- 
Henry 
)]e  and 
orridor 
3d  the 
.  Her 
trem- 
bring- 
'dinate 
id  him 

,  in  a 
1  rang 
i  grave 

before 
igh  to 
.t  last, 
crying 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND  3,3 

When  Henry  AVillis  carried  her  to  the  office,  the  first 
paroxysmal  symptoms  of  cholera  had  set  in. 

AD  hope  was  over.     Nurse  Myron  was  dying.     Every 
remedy  despairing  skill  could  suggest  had  been  resorted  to, 
but  m  vain.     Transfusion  of  blood  had  brought  not  even 
an  evanescent  strength.     The  disease  had  culminated,  and 
death  was  simply  a  question  of  minutes— an  hour  at  most. 
Her  face  liad  become  olive  in  tint,  and  shone  up  with 
Murillo-like  beauty  of  tint   and  form  from   the  pillow. 
Beside  her,  in  all  the  abandon  of  shattered  hope,  knelt 
Henry  Willis.     But  to  all  his  pleading  Myron  Holder  was 
deaf,  until,  by  the  inspiration  of  despair,  he  cried  aloud: 
" For  his  sake,  to  give  him  a  name!" 
Then  she  consented.     In  the  presence  of  the  remnant  of 
nurses  left,  blessed  by  the  devoted  minister  who  also  lived 
among  these  dangers,  Myron  Holder  and  Henry  Willis 
took  each  oth3r  for  man  and  wife. 

They  were  alone.     He  held  her  hand,   awed  by  the 
supernal  brightness  of  her  eyes. 

"  You  will  write  his  name  above  his  grave?"  she  said 
"His  real  name— Henry  Willis?    Do  you  know  what  I 
called  hirn?    My— little  My." 

"Live,"  he  murmured.     "Live  to  let  me  atone—to  be 
happy— to  be  adored.     Live— you  can  if  you  will." 

"Could  I?"   she  said.      "Life  holds  nothing  for  me- 
D^ath  him,  or  f orgetf ulness. "  ' 

Her  eyes  began  to  film.     He  bent  over  her  distractedly, 
calling  her  tender  names,  pleading  for  a  look— a  sign. 

"Speak  to  me— forgive   me,"    he  cried.     "Myron- 
Myron!"  ^ 

"I  forgive  you,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  once  again 
with  calm  and  steadfast  eye  of  divine  forgetfulness.  She 
^^k  into  a  stupor,  through  wbich  she  murmurTjd  "  My— 


314 


THE   UNTEMPERED  WIND 


little  My" — tenderly,  as  to  a  sleeping  child.  Then  sud- 
denly her  eyes  opened,  u  flood  of  ineffable  brightness  illu- 
mined her  face,  she  stretched  forth  her  arms  and  uttered  a 
name  in  a  cry  of  joyous  hope,  and  sank  back.  The  world 
was  over  for  her.  There  but  remained  the  involuntary 
efforts  of  life  against  annihilation,  efforts  which,  happily, 
were  few  and  brief.  Twenty  minutes  after  she  became  a 
wife,  Myron  Willis  had  passed — 

"'And  surely,'  all  folk  said, 
'None  ever  saw  such  joy  on  visage  dead. ' " 

They  buried  her,  as  the  law  required,  with  the  rest  of 
those  who  died  of  the  pest.  Upon  her  breast  they  found 
an  ill-made  little  bag  of  checked  blue  and  white  cotton. 
AVithin  it  was  a  flossy  skein  of  child's  hair  tangled  by  many, 
tears  and.  kisses.  They  brought  it  to  Dr.  Willis,  and  he 
replaced  it  upon  the  dead  breast  with  whose  secret  sobs 
and  sighs  it  had  risen  and  fallen  for  so  long. 

The  newspapers  gave  a  pathetic  account  of  the  "  Ro- 
mance in  a  Quarantine  Station,"  and  told  how  the  famous 
Dr.  Willis,  meeting  his  "  girl  love"  in  the  hospital,  had 
married  her  on  her  deathbed.  The  tale  cast  quite  a 
romantic  lustre  over  the  doctor's  somewhat  prosaic  career 
of  medical  achievement. 

There  was  no  word  said,  however,  of  their  first  meeting 
and  parting,  nor  of  a  little  grave  that  to  this  day  is 
unmarked  save  for  a  tiny  tablet  whereon  is  carven  one  syl- 
lable—MY. 


a 


IS 


T^E   PNP, 


/  ** 


sud- 
iUu- 
rcd  a 
vorld 
iitary 

ime  a 


rest  of 
found 
10 1  ton. 
'  many 
md  he 
3t  sobs 

.   "Ro- 

fanious 
al,  had 
quite  a 
J  career 

meeting 

day   is 

one  syl- 


COPYRIGHT   AND    MISCELLA- 

I 

NEOUS  PUBLICATIONS   ISSUED 
BY   J.   SELWIN    TAIT    &    SONS 


What  One  Woman  Thinks. 

Essays  of  Haryot  Holt  Cahoon.  With  frontispiece. 
Edited  by  Cynthia  M.  Westover.  i2mo,  cloth,  gilt 
top,  $1.25. 

A  series  of  brilliant  essays  which  no  household  should  be  without.    The  charm  of 

this  gifted  author's  personality  is  perceptible  in  every  line. 

"  It  is  because  these  various  essays  are  so  unstudied,  are  so  natural,  and  have 

nothing  foreign  in  their  sentiment  that  one  likes  them  so  well.     An  essentially 

American  woman  is  here  writing  for  us." — New  York  Times. 

"  These  essays  are  a  judicious  combination  of  thought  and  expression.    They  treat 

of  homely  matters  chiefly,  and  reveal  a  true  woman.    .    .    .    The  collaboration  is 

a  pleasing  success,  both  from  a  literary  and  moral  point  of  view." 

—  The  Churchman. 

"  This  series  of  brilliant  essays  make  a  volume  of  intense  interest,  dealing  both 
with  people  and  things.  The  marked  personality  of  this  gifted  author  is  shown 
throughout  the  book ;  clean-cut  versatility  and  depth  of  thought  are  constantly 
apparent.    .    .    .    Everybody  should  read  these  essays." — Boston  Times. 

"  The  sketches  are  to  be  commended  for  their  concise  and  pleasant  manner  of 
saying  what  is  to  be  said  directly  and  without  unnecessary  circumlocution.  They 
are  pointed,  witty,  and  in  most  cases  just.  .  •  .  One  of  the  best  is  an  early  one, 
'  What  Shall  I  Say  to  Peggy? '  "—Chicago  Times. 

"  You  cannot  read  beyond  page  seven  without  a  touch  of  the  throat  paralysis  that 
is  akin  to  tears.    .    ,    .    '  Infinite  riches  iu  a  little  room.' " 

—New  York  Telegram. 


Tavistock  Tales. 


By  Gilbert  Parker,  author  of  •*  The  Chief  Factor,"  etc., 
and  others.     Illustrated.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25.    Paper,  50c. 

Mr.  Gilbert  Parker's  talent  is  very  conspicuous  in  this  work,  and  the  same  may  be 
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TAVISTOCK  TALES— Continue,  i 

"The  best  of  taste  has  been  shown  in  the  selection  of  these  stories.  ;  .  I  We 
know  of  few  short  stories  more  impressive  than  Gilbert  Parker's  '  The  March  of 
the  White  Guard.'  "—New  York  Times. 

"  The  book  is  a  charming  one,  and  it  is  most  attractively  illustrated,  by  six  compe- 
tent  artists,  in  black  and  white." — Boston  Beacon. 

"  A  volume  full  of  power  and  pathos,  dealing  with  great  struggles  in  the  lives  of 
mankind,  they  have  the  virtue  of  being  intensely  human.  .  .  «  Together  they 
form  a  delectable  f>;»st  of  pleasing  variety. "—Public  Opinion. 

"  One  of  the  most  entertaining  volumes  of  short  stories  of  the  season,  because  of 
their  variety  and  strength.  .  .  .  '  The  March  of  the  White  Guard '  is  by  far 
the  strongest  and  most  dramatic." — Boston  Times, 

"  A  book  that  cannot  be  too  highly  commended." 

—Commercial  Bulletin,  Minneapolis. 

"  It  will  make  a  delightful  and  ornamental  addition  to  any  family  library,  especially 
where  the  family  contains  young  people." — Kansas  City  Journal. 

"  A  cool,  refreshing  volume  for  summer  reading  is  '  Tavistock  Tales.'  ,  ,  . 
We  can  strongly  recommend  iX.."— Detroit  Free  Press. 


Told  by  the  Colonel. 


By  W.  L.  Alden.     Illustrated.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25.  Paper,  50c. 

"The  Colonel's  repertory  is  of  the  funniest,  and  the  most  absurd  things  are  given 
in  the  gravest  manner,  and  it  is  the  amusing  contrast,  the  jumble  of  things  plaus- 
ible and  impossible,  that  catches  hold  of  the  listeners.  No  human  being  ever 
could  work  the  qualifying  adjective  as  does  Mr.  Alden." — New  York  Times. 

"  His  humor  is  clean  and  enjoyable." — Boston  Times. 

"  Everyone  will  enjoy  the  sketches,  which  are  sure  to  provoke  a  hearty  laugh." 

— Boston  Courier. 

"  The  stories  have  considerable  breadth.  Former  readers  of  the  New  York  Times 
who  revelled  in  the  humor  of  W.  L.  Alden  will  hail  the  appearance  of  this  new 
volume." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  Here's  a  good  antidote  for  the  blues.  If  a  sick  or  melancholy  person  should 
secure  a  copy  he  would  soon  be  a  cured  man." — Burlington  Hawk  Eye. 

"  Mr.  Alden's  humor  produces  the  happy  effect  of  good  wine." 

— Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"  The  whole  will  serve  very  well  as  a  prescription  for  any  one  suffering  with  an 
attack  of  the  blues." — San  Francisco  Morning  Call. 

"  The  stories  abound  in  humorous  situations,  quaint  characters,  and  bright  witti- 
cisms. The  author's  fertile  fancy  is  happily  combined  with  a  terse  and  forcible 
style." — Outing. 

"  The  stories  are  really  funny,  not  mere  attempts  in  that  direction.  The  illustra- 
tions are  also  well  done  and  increase  in  no  small  degree  the  amusement  to  be 
derived  from  the  book." — Boston  Herald. 

"Catchy  enough  to  interest  a  child,  with  an  undercurrent  satirical  moral  deep 
enough  for  the  grandest  statesman." — Harrisburg  Telegram. 

"The  author  of  'The  Adventures  of  Jimmy  Brown,'  who  was  a  naughty  boy 
always  getting  into  trouble,  .  .  .  has  the  gift  of  fastening  our  attention  and 
amusing  us." — Detroit  Free  Press. 

"  Written  in  a  particularly  bright  and  lively  style,  and  makes  most  excellent  read- 
ing."— New  Orleans  Picayune. 

"  Full  of  bright,  clean  humor  and  sharp  sarcasm." — St.  Louis  Post  Dispatch. 

"  In  one  story,  '  Thompson's  Tombstone,'  there  is  a  drollery  worthy  of  Mark 
T'wain."— Evening  Bulletin,  Philadelphia. 

"  Mr.  Alden  is  a  born  humorist,  and  his  book  ought  to  heighten  the  joy  of  the 
nations."— A'l  Y.  Recorder. 

"Stories  like  these  of  Mr.  Alden's  affect  the  mental  appetite  afler  the  manner  of  a 
piquant  gauce.  .  .  .  The '  ridiculous '  power  of  the  whol?  Ij5t  p/  gtorija  is  wpjj- 
dmnV'—Boftpn  Ideas, 


f 


Memoirs  of  Anne  C.   L.  Botta. 

Written  by  her  friends.  With  selections  f.  -^'n  her  corres- 
pondence and  from  her  writings  in  prose  anu  poetry. 
Edited  by  Professor  Vincenzo  Botta.  A  limited  edition, 
printed  on  Holland  paper,  with  gilt  top  and  untrimmed 
edges.  Engraved  portrait  of  Mrs.  Botta.  Cloth,  8vo, 
475  pages,  $3.50. 

"  An  extraordinary  tribnte  and  one  that  could  not  have  been  called  forth  by  any 
ordinary  character.  Mr.  James  Anthony  Froude,  Mr.  Parke  Godwin,  Mrs.  Julia 
Ward  Howe,  Mr.  E.  C.  Stedman,  Mr.  Charles  Dudley  Warner,  Miss  Kate  Field. 
Miss  Kate  Sanborn,  Mr.  John  Bigelow,  Miss  Edith  M.  Thomas,  Mr.  Richard 
Watson  Gilder,  Mrs.  Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  Mr.  Moncure  D.Conway,  Mr.  Justin 
McCarthy,  and  many  more,  have  contributed  these  memoirs," — The  New  Votk  Sun. 

"  The  volume  recently  edited  by  Professor  Botta,  in  memory  of  his  wife,  .  .  . 
will  have  an  ennobling  and  uplifting  effect  upon  all  who  read  it,  by  reason  of  the 
picture  it  presents  of  an  ideally  beautiful  life.  We  commend  this  symposium  to 
the  consideration  of  those  ladies  who  are  ambitious  to  emulate  the  fame  of  those 
of  their  sex  whose  names  have  become  historical  as  the  creators  of  salons." 

—  The  Home  Journal. 

"  There  is  a  touching  charm  about  many  of  these  memoirs ;  they  gl<nv  with  the 
splendor  of  lofty  and  real  attachment,  and,  they  pulsate  with  generous  and  respon- 
sive life  as  do  hearts.  .  .  .  For  nearly  two  generations  Mrs.  Botta  was  a  con- 
spicuous force  and  figure  in  the  social  and  intellectual  life  of  this  city.  When  she 
died  Julia  Ward  Howe  remarked,  'AH  her  friends  remain  her  debtors.'  .  .  . 
Andrew  D.  White  quotes  Horace  Greeley,  who  said :  'Anne  Lynch  is  the  best 
woman  that  God  ever  made.'  .  .  .  Froude  declares  that  while  he  lives  he  cau 
never  cease  to  remember  her.  .  .  .  Charles  A.  Peabody  will  remember  her  '  as 
a  benefactor  so  long  as  memory  shall  continue  to  serve  me.'  " — New  York  Times. 

"The  volume  of  memoirs  which  her  husband  has  edited  is  a  lasting  and  impres- 
sive monument  to  her  n^emory,  builded  by  many  hands  and  adorned  with  the  affec- 
tionate and  loving  utterances  of  scores  of  distinguished  persons  who  regret  her 
loss.  •  .  .  The  m'jmoirs  are  most  handsomely  printed  on  heavy  rough-edged 
paper,  and  are  embellished  with  a  portrait  of  Mrs.  Botta  in  '  the  flower  of  her  old 
age.'  " — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  Mrs.  Botta  was  a  woman  of  acute  intellectual  insight  and  a  most  charming  char- 
acter. Her  presence  acted  as  a  powerful  stimulus  in  developing  the  social  talents 
of  others,  and  her  'evenings'  were  a  recojjnized  institution  in  New  York,  where 
the  best  writers,  poets,  and  artists  of  the  time  attended  these  popular  receptions. 
It  was  at  one  of  these  that  Poe  gave  the  first  reading  of  the  '^ Raven.'  Emerson, 
Bryant,  Irving,  Bancroft,  Bayard  Taylor,  Dr.  Bellows,  the  Carey  sisters,  Horace 
Greeley,  H.  W.  Beecher,  Edwin  Booth,  Froude,  Proctor,  Charles  Kingsley, 
Matthew  Arnold,  Lord  Houghton,  and  other  prominent  people  attended  Mrs. 
Botta's  receptions,  and  happy  recollections  of  these  social  gatherings  animate  the 
portion  of  this  memorial  contributed  by  her  friends.  ...  A  portrait  of  Mrs. 
Botta  taken  late  in  life  explains  what  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  said  of  her: 
'  Her  grace,  her  personal  charm,  her  gift  of  perpetual  youth,  were  those  of  an  ideal 
womanhood.'  It  is  a  stimulating  hook."— Public  Ledger,  Philadelphia. 
"  This  book,  commemorating  a  good,  wise,  and  lovable  woman,  is  hardly  a  biog- 
raphy, though  the  course  of  a  beneficent  life  may  be  traced  in  its  pages.  ,  .  . 
It  IS  an  enviable  testimony  to  the  beauty  of  Mrs.  Botta's  character  and  the  worth  of 
her  brains  that  these  chapters  set  forth.  .  .  .  What  she  seemed  to  one  among 
themany  foreigners  of  distinction,  who  have  tested  her  hospitality  in  later  years, 
IS  set  forth  in  this  passage  from  a  letter  written  by  Mr.  Froude :  '  I  have  kno-.vn 
many  interesting  women  in  my  life,  but  about  her  there  was  a  peculiar  grace  which 
I  have  never  seen  in  any  other  person.  She  had  brilliant  gifts,  yet  she  never 
seemed  to  know  that  she  had  any  gifts  at  all. 

,' J-i^**  •"^'■o^"'^^  '"to  Mrs.  Botta's  salon  forty-four  years  ago,  either  by  Dr.  Rufus 
Wilmot  Griswold  or  by  Mr.  Bayard  Taylor.  Mrs.  Botta,  who  was  then  Miss  Anne 
Charlotte  Lynch,  was  known  to  me  before  the  date  I  have  specified  through  her 
PJ>€["s  'n  Graham's  Magazine  and  other  periodicals.  ...  To  meet  this  accom- 
plished gentlewoman  was  a  distinction,  since  in  meeting  her  one  met  her  friends, 
^leastofwhom  was  worth  knowing.    .    .    ," 

—Richard  Henrv  Stoddard  m  The  Jndependfift^f 


The  Gist  of  Whist. 

By  Charles  E.  Coffin.    Pocket  i2mo,  red  edges,  cloth, 
75  cents;  flexible  leather,  red  edges,  $i.oo. 

"  A  valuable  addition  to  whist  literature,  and  must  be  greatly  appreciated  by  all 
loversof  the  intellectual  game.  .  .  The  author  has  examined  all  the  standard 
authorities,  and  presented  the  gist  of  the  whole  subject  in  the  least  possible  com- 
pass, and  in  the  most  interesting  and  complete  and  comprehensive  form." 

— Evening  Post,  Burlington,  Iowa. 

"  A  clever  and  thoroughly  practical  manual."— /%t7arf^//Ata  Ledger. 

"A  book  to  be  bought,  read,  and  cherished  forever." — Providence  Sunday /ournai. 

"  Presents  the  chief  features  of  the  game  in  a  strong  and  simple  way." 

— Boston  Advertiser, 

"  Simple  and  direct  in  statement.  The  laws  and  leads  are  made  clear  in  condensed 
and  practical  form."— Boston  Times. 

" '  The  Gist  of  Whist '  meets  a  long-felt  requirement.  ...  In  its  one  hundred 
pages  are  contained  concise,  readable,  and  comprehensive  instructions  of  the 
game,  under  such  practical  heads  as  Fundamental  Principles,  American  Leads, 
Conventional  Plays,  and  Practical  Precepts.  .  .  .  The  whole  is  in  just  the  shape 
for  informative  reading  or  quick  reference.  The  binding,  too,  is  dainty  indeed 
and  of  itself  sufficient  to  make  one  desire  its  possession."— ^oj/o«  Ideas. 

"A  perfect  hand  manual  of  this  king  of  card  games ;  contains  the  essence  of  all  the 
best  guide  books  on  the  subject,  including  the  improved  method  of  American  leads 
and  a  complete  glossary  of  the  common  and  technical  terms,  to  which  is  added 
'  The  Laws  of  Whist '  as  revised  at  the  Third  American  Whist  Congress. 

'  Know  the  leads  and  when  to  make  them. 
Know  the  tricks  and  when  to  take  them. 
Know  the  rules  and  when  to  break  them, 
Know  the  laws  and  ne'er  forsake  them.' 

"  Beginners  and  moderate  players  at  whist  need  to  have  the  information  of  the 
game  presented  to  them  in  an  entertaining  manner  in  order  to  awaken  interest  and 
encourage  them  to  proceed. 

"  I  believe  '  The  Gist  of  Whist '  will  possess  this  characteristic  in  a  marked  degree, 
judging  from  the  advance  sheets  wnich  I  have  seen.  It  is  bright  in  style,  ana 
presents  the  chief  features  of  the  game  in  a  strong,  simple  way. 

All  maxims  and  tables  of  leads  follow  the  latest  and  best  authorities,  so  that  the 
work  is  entirely  reliable ;  and  it  is  broad  and  comprehensive  enough  to  graduate 
good  players."— Cassius  M.  Paine,  Editor  of  IVhist. 


Barrack-room  Ballads  and  Other  Verses. 

By  RuDYARD  Kipling,  author  of  "  Mij:e  Own  People," 
"Soldiers  Three,"  etc.  i2mo,  cloth,  $i.oo;  paper,  50 
cents. 

"  These  poems  are  full  of  dramatic  vigor,  crisp,  terse,  witty,  and  entertaining. 
Those  entitled  '  The  Betrothed,'  '  You  May  Choose  Between  Me  and  Your  Cigar  ' 
remind  one  of  Bret  Harte  or  Thackeray,  and  are  alone  worth  the  price  of  the  book." 


The  Woman  of  the  Iron  Bracelets. 

By  Frank  Barrett,  author  of  "  Kitty's  Father,"  "Olga's 
Crime,"  etc.     i2nio,  cloth,  $1.00.  Paper,  50c. 

"  In  evenr  way  an  excellent  story.    A  well-balanced,  charming  work  of  fiction, 
clean  and  brij;^at."—i70j/0»  Times. 


Who  is  tlie  Man? 


By  J.  SELtviiJ  Tait,  authot  0/  "  Uy  Friend  Pasquale," 
"The  Neapolitan  Banker,"  etc.  Illustrated.  i2mo,  cloth, 
$1.25. 


"  The  reader's  interest  is  held  spellbound  from  the  beginning  of  the  book  to  its 
rlose,  and  the  mystery  of  the  volume  deepens  with  every  page  until  the  final  solu- 
tion comes  upon  him  with  a  shock  of  startled  surprise.  The  bull  fight  on  the  plain 
and  subsequent  duel  are  as  thrilling  as  the  chariot  race  in  '  Ren  Hnr  '  anrf  th» 
interest  is  never  allowed  to  flag." — Recorder, 


"  A  Story  which,  from  the  opening  pages  to  the  last  chapter,  creates  and  holds  the 
reader's  eager  mterest."— /%i7arf<?/^Aia  Inquirer. 

"  A  well-sustained  story  of  the  concealment  and  discovery  of  the  authorship  of 
crime.  The  action  opens  in  Wyoming  Territory  but  is  continued  and  concluded 
on  the  Scottish  border.  The  plot  is  thoroughly  natural,  and  the  narrative  is  vig- 
orous and  engrossing."— 7%^  Congregationalist, 


My  Friend  Pasquale. 


By  J.  Selwin  Tait,  author  of  "Who  is  the  Man?»* 
"The  Neapolitan  Banker,"  etc.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  The  most  noteworthy  of  the  stories  in  this  volume  is  the  first,  bearing  the  plain 
unpromismg  superscription  '  My  Friend  Pasquale.'  A  most  remarkable,  and  we 
might  say  a  most  brilliant,  attempt  to  illustrate  the  wide  range  of  the  human  in:- 
agination.  The  little  plot  has  been  most  naturally  and  unaffectedly  laid  and  faith- 
fully conducted  to  a  rather  eccentric  close.  .  .  .  The  story  is  absorbingly  fas- 
cinating and  keeps  one's  attention  actually  spellbound  from  its  beginning  to  its 
close."— Public  Opinion,  as 


The  Lost  Trader; 


Or,  THE  Mystery  of  the  "Lombards."    By  Henry 
Frith.   i2mo,  cloth,  illuminated  cover.  Four  illustrations. 

"  It  is  wholesome  and  uplifting  in  its  tone  and  chacnxcitr."— Boston  Herald. 

"  A  healthy  and  stirring  romance  of  the  sea."— Philadelphia  Press. 

"A  splendid  sea  story  of  the  days  when  steam  had  not  yet  destroyed  the  romance 
ofthedeep."— ^00*  Chat. 

!' A  capital  story  of  marine  adventures.  Pirates,  slave-traders,  mutineers,  desert 
islands,  shipwrecks,  sea-fights,  and  hidden  treasures  are  Mr.  Frith's  paraphernalia 
and  he  makes  full  use  of  them  all.    The  book  will  be  a  delight  to  boys." 

—Charleston  News  and  Courier, 
"  The  author  is  a  famous  spinner  of  yams ;  there  is  no  flagging  of  interest  'from 
cover  to  cover."— Philadelphia  Record. 

"  Most  picturesquely  bound  and  well  illustrated.  One  of  the  books  the  uprisinc 
feneration  will  fully  appreciate."— ^<>//M»/ifeM. 


The  Bedouin  GirL 


By  Mrs.  S.  J.  HiGGiNSON,  author  of  "A  Princess  of  Java." 
Illustrated  with  5  original  drawings  by  Steeple  Davis. 
i2mo,  cloth,  with  appropriate  design,  $1.25. 

"  '  The  Bedouin  Girl '  s  a  striking  story.  Mrs.  Higginson  is  one  of  the  few  white 
women  who  have  jourr,  eyed  with  the  Haj-Caravan  on  its  holy  pilgriniag:e,  and  she 
has  done  other  strang<!  feats  of  traveling  which  are  seldom  indulged  in  by  Amer- 
ican women,  though  Et.glish  women  frequently  attempt  them.  .  .  .  The  story 
is  decidedly  original  ana  has  local  color  not  usual  in  Oriental  tales  written  by  out- 
side barbarians.  ,  .  .  The  description  of  the  Pilgrimage  from  Bagdad  seems  to 
me  capital  and  realistic.  Not  quite  as  gorgeous  and  lurid  as  that  of  the  passing  of 
the  caravans  in  '  The  Prince  of  India,'  but  very  life-like. 

"  The  Bedouin  girl  is  a  beautiful  little  thing  and  clever,  and  is  quite  a  new  character 
in  the  stories  ofthese^w  de  Steele  days.  Her  escapes  are  well  told,  and  there  is  a 
decided  humorous  touch  about  the  woman  Ayeba  who  curled  herself  into  a  ball 
and  rolled  in  the  sand  when  her  husband  Metaah  began  to  kick  and  beat  her. 
"Mrs.  Higginson  has  written  to  entertain,  and  the  unusual  characters  and  scenes  of 
her  story  will  accomplish  that  object.  The  book  makes  a  new  ripple  upon  the  sea 
of  literature."— JBANNETTE  Gilder  in  The  Chicago  Tribune. 


Out  of  Reach. 

By  ESMfi  Stuart.    1 2mo,  cloth,  illuminated  cover.    Four 
illustrations. 

"  A  perfectly  beautiful  story  for  older  girls,  by  Esm6  Stuart,  well  remembered 
through  'A  Little  Brown  Girl'  and  '  Mimi.'  .  .  .  The  book  is  prettily  bound 
and  illustrated." — Baltimore  American. 

"  A  romantic  tale  which  touches  a  bit  the  atmosphere  of  the  weird,  but  which  is  in 
itself  not  the  least  so,  being  brisk  and  vigorous  throughout.  .  .  .  The  idea  of 
the  story  is  excellent  and  it  is  strongly  handled.  .  .  .  Parts  of  it  are  very  sweet, 
all  interesting,  much  cleverly  placed.  The  diction  is  always  clear  and  forceful  and 
the  story,  with  all  its  romantic  resources,  developed  amid  a  specially  fruitful 
atmosphere,  is  one  that  will  be  widely  enjoyed."— ^oj/on  Ideas. 

" '  Out  of  Reach,'  by  Estnfi  Stuart,  is  for  a  young  girl  what  a  novel  by  Mr.  Grant 
Allen  might  be  for  her  mother.  .  .  .  The  book  is  entertaining  and  rather  unus- 
ual in  churactQT,"— Literary  JVorld. 


Black,  White,  and  Gray. 

By  Amy  Walton.      With  4  illustrations.     Illuminated 
cover.      i2mo,  cloth. 

A  iitory  of  three  homes.    An  excellent  story  for  children. 

"  It  is  to  be  recommended  heartily  to  all  who  want  something  innocent  and  pleas* 
ing  to  add  to  the  children's  home  library."— jSoj/om  Beacon. 

"  An  amusing  tale  of  three  kittens  and  their  homes  by  Amy  Walton.  It  is  a  sensi- 
ble, jolly  book  for  little  boys  and  girls.  ...  It  is  not  often  that  one  comes 
across  such  a  natural,  sensible  story  so  pleasantly  \.o\A."— Literary  fVorld. 

"It  contains  a  wealth  of  sympathetic  touches  that  will  make  each  child  who  reads 
it  more  reflective  and  thoughtful  in  her  intercourse  with  other  boys  and  girls." 

—Boston  Herald, 


At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon. 

By  Frank  Mathew.    Illustrated  by  Fred.  Pegram  and 
A.  S.  Boyd.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.25. 

" '  At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon  '  is  but  a  little  volume,  and  its  stories  are  brief  and 
not  many,  but  the  very  heart  of  Ireland  beats  in  them.  One  by  one  the  various 
national  types  appear ;  it  is  a  motley  compjany,  but  every  figure  abounds  in  charac- 
ter, and  Mr.  Mathew,  whether  by  imitation  or  by  grace  of  similar  natural  gift, 
makes  each  one  as  effective  as  Mr.  K-oling  himself  could  make  it." 

— Boston  Herald. 

"  They  are  as  true  to  Irish  life  as  the  songs  of  Tom  Moore  sutg."— Literary  World. 

"  In  this  series  of  stories  and  studies  the  biographer  of  Father  Mathew  has  done 
for  Moher  and  its  people  very  much  what  Mr.  Barrie  has  done  for  Thrums  in  his 
'  Idylls.'  The  writer  brims  over  with  Hibernian  hilarity,  and  his  book  teems  with 
that  apparently  unconscious  humor  which  is  so  racy  of  the  soil." 

— Glasgow  Herald. 

"  A  volume  of  gracefully  written  and  interesting  sketches  of  Irish  life.  Mr. 
Mathew  has  a  delicacy  of  touch  and  a  certain  refinement  that  udd  to  the  value  of 
his  studies  of  Irish  character." — World. 

"  Ireland  has  found  her  Kipling  and  that  is  no  small  good  fortune  for  her.  .  .  . 
The  very  heart  of  Ireland  beats  in  these  stories.  .  .  .  There  is  a  warm  welcome 
in  store  for  a  dozen  such  books  if  they  be  as  good  as  '  At  the  Rising  of  the  Moon.' " 

— Boston  Herald. 

"  An  attractive  collection  of  Irish  stories  and  studies.  The  Rev.  Peter  Flannery 
might  have  been  one  of  Charles  Lever's  characters.  ...  All  the  tales  are  set  m 
that  minor  key  to  which  all  true  Irish  melodies  are  attuned."— 7%^  Churchman. 

"  The  pages  bear  a  ripple  of  genuine  Hibernian  feeling,  both  grave  and  gay ;  and 
the  printing  and  illustrations  are  excellent."— /Mrf<?/^nrf««/. 

"True  lovers  of  Ireland  who  are  homesick  for  the  smell  of  the  'ould  sod*  will 
find  this  book  very  much  to  their  liking."— £vemng^  Telegraph,  Philadelphia, 


The  Soul  of  the  Bishop. 

By  John  Strange  Winter  (Mrs.  Arthur  Stannard, 
F.R.S.L.).  Handsomely  illustrated,  with  frontispiece  of 
author.    Cloth,  310  pages,  i2mo,  $1.25.  Paper,  50c. 

An  engrossing  work  which  clergymen  of  all  denominations— as  well  as  laymen — 
will  do  well  to  read  and  carefully  ponder. 

In  her  preface  the  author  says:  "  I  have  tried  to  show  how  a  really  honest  mind 
may,  and,  alas,  too  oflen  does,  suffer  mental  and  moral  shipwreck  over  those  rocks 
which  the  Church  allows  to  endanger  the  channel  to  a  harbor  never  easy  to  navi- 
gate at  any  time." 

"  Both  theme  and  motive  are  timely,  and  are  artistically  developed." 

— Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  The  book  is  a  noteworthy  protest  against  the  retention  of  outgrown  dogmas  in 
the  constitution  of  any  churcl.."— Literary  World. 

"  A  book  of  unmistakable  force.  The  situation  is  perfectly  natural ;  not  an  over> 
strained  note  appears  in  it."— Philadelphia  Ledger. 


Cheap  Jack  Zita. 


By  S.  Baring-Gould,  author  of  **MehaIati,"  "Juditii,'' 
''John  Herring,"  etc.    i2mo,  cloth,  finely  illustrated,  $1.25. 

Paper,  50c. 

Apart  (fm  his  acknowledg[ed  skill  as  a  writer  Mr.  Gould  is  the  highest  living 
authority  on  the  wonderful  fen-life  in  the  Lincolnshire  marshes,  and  the  book  is 
as  full  of  strong  local  color  as  "  Lorna  Doone,"  which  it  somewhat  resembles. 


The  Dooms womaii. 

By  Gertrude  Atherton,  author  of  "Hermia  Suydam," 
"  Los  Cerritos,"  "A  Question  of  Time,"  etc.  i6mo, 
cloth,  ornamental,  $1.00.      Paper,  25c. 

•'Full  of  incident,  passion,  color,  and  character."— TVi*?  Critic. 

•'A  powerful  dramatic  representation  of  old  California  life." 

— LippincotV s  Magazine. 

"Conspicuously  superior  to  any  novel  that  any  Californian  has  done." 

— Ambrosk  Bikrce  in  San  Francisco  Examiner. 

" '  The  Doomswoman  '  is  an  immensdy  clever  book,  and  there  are  pages  in  it  that 
deserve  to  live  as  being  some  of  the  ablest  contributions  to  the  literature  of  the 
human  emotions  which  the  English  litenUure  contains."— /Virw  Figaro. 

"  Mrs.  Atherton  has  given  to  us  a  picture  of  the  manners,  social  life,  traditions, 
feuds,  and  ambitions  of  a  by-gone  time  and  a  virtually  by-gone  race.  .  .  .  'The 
Doomswoman '  is  not  only  an  interesting  and  vivid  stoiy,  but  a  book  of  permanent 
histonical  \i\\XK."— Boston  Times. 

"  The  characters  in  the  book  are  very  fine.  The  action  is  rapid  and  Interesting. 
The  descriptions  are  artistic,  and  all  is  clothed  with  a  charming  style.  It  is  a  de- 
lightful book." — New  Orleans  Picayune.  , 

"It  is  in  the  realized  fulness  and  complex  emotions  of  life  that  Mrs.  Atherton 's 
strength  lies.  Chonita,  '  The  Doomswoman,'  is  a  character  whose  completeness 
cottla  be  surpassed  by  few  authors.  A  breathing  reality  created  by  a  master  hand  ; 
and  she  is  not  less  real  because  she  is  an  uncommon,  an  original  character.  This 
is  high  praise  but  it  is  not  too  high." — Vanity  Fair,  London. 

"  The  novel  is  full  of  a  vivid  life  and  personality,  of  freshness  and  fascination,  of 
pictures  which  will  not  easily  be  forgotten.    ...  4ir  It  is  by  far 

the  most  picturesque  and  characteristic  showing  that  has  been  made  of  that  time 
(the  old  Spanish  days)." — Literary  IVorld. 

"  Though  Mrs.  Atherton's  descriptions  of  the  land  and  of  the  estates,  of  the  dwell- 
ings and  of  the  inhabitants,  of  their  christenings  and  marriages  with  the  joyous 
accompaiuments  of  feast  ana  dance,  are  vivid  and  interesting,  yet  her  novel  has  in 
it  an  abundance  of  thought,  a  critical  intellectuality,  an  acuteness  in  character 
analysis  that  give  it  abundant  worth  even  were  it  not  placed  in  au  attractive  set- 
ting of  unusual  scenery." — Public  Opinion. 

"  Mrs.  Atherton's  realism  can  be  praised  because  it  is  natural  and  not  pretended. 
Given  the  strange  atmosphere  in  which  her  chaiacters  move,  they  are  men  and 
women  with  the  virtues  and  failings  of  genuine  people.  Her  descriptions  of  social 
life  in  California  are  vivid,  and  they  have  the  effect  of  dissipating  some  of  those 
ceremonious  forms  which  were  crystallized  in  much  old-iashionea  fiction  respect- 
ing the  Spaniards  in  America."— .aW  York  Tribune, 

"  A  novel  of  early  Californian  and  Mexican  days  before  the  discovery  of  gold* 
Told  with  force  and  vivid  eS^cV— Baltimore  Sun, 


^      .     -y 


Cosmopolis, 


By  Paul  Bourget.  Authorized  edition;  handsomefy 
illustrated  by  A  Casarin,  a  pupil  of  Meissonier.  Large 
i2mo,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.50.     Paper  {not  illustrated),  50  cents. 

"  A  work  of  extraordinary  power  and  deep  mieresiy— Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

"  Bourget  has  Riven  us  a  series  of  portraits  which  are  elaborated  and  re- 
fined.   .    .    .    '  Cosmopolis '  is  an  admirable  piece  of  portraiture  in  all  ways." 

—New  York  Tribune. 

The  Curb  of  Honor. 

By  M.  Betham-Edwards,  author  of  "  The  Romance  of 
a  French  Parsonage."     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00.   Paper,  50c. 

A  romantic  story  of  the  Pyrenees,  that  peculiar  French  atmosphere  with  which 
that  talented  author  alone  of  English  writers  can  endow  a  picture  of  French  life. 

"  With  many  and  effective  descriptions  of  scenery  in  the  Pyrenees  this  story  of  the 
French  and  Spanish  border  line  runs  along  very  pleasantly." — The  Independent, 

"  Grandly  clear-cut  is  this  story,  harmoniously  true  and  deeply  strong.  A  gem  cut 
from  Nature's  very  heart,  rather  than  from  her  clothing."— ^oj/o«  Ideas. 

"This  story  is  well  told  and  is  not  commonplace." — Telegram. 

"The  author  shows  a  man,  yet  one  full  of  inspiration,  genius,  and  wit;  and  his 
great  love  for  the  waif  of  the  storm,  Eldred  Eden,  is  exquisitely  portrayed.  '  The 
Curb  of  Honor '  will  add  to  the  author's  name  and  fame.  — Boston  Times. 

."  Miss  Betham-Edwards's  new  book  contains  some  excellent  descriptions  of  Py- 
renean  scenery  and  of  life  in  one  of  the  remote  mountain  valleys  on  the  borderland 
between  France  and  Spain.  Miss  Betham-Edwards  has  made  French  Protestant 
parsonages  quite  a  specialty  of  her  own,  and  turns  them  to  very  pleasant  use." 

— Athenceum. 

"  The  pictures  of  French  life  and  scenery  are  fine.  They  belong'to  a',field  in  which 
the  author  excels."— £>ai7y  News,  Denver. 


Mrs.  Clift-Crosby's  Niece. 

By  Ella  Childs  Hurlbut.     i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00.  Paper,  25c. 

This  is  an  exceedingly  piquant  society  novel.  It  abounds  in  striking  passages, 
and  its  easy,  unbroken  style  makes  its  reflection  of  fashionable  life  singularly  faith- 
ful and  clear.  It  is  rare,  indci'd,  that  fashionable  New  York  finds  so  gifted  an 
illustrator  as  Mrs.  Hurlbut. 

"  It  is  a  fascinating  society  novel  of  the^fw  de  siecle  type.  The  story  is  really  brill- 
iant at  times,  with  a  finished,  terse  style  that  is  singularly  true,  in  detail,  to  the 
fashionable  life  that  it  describes." — Boston  Times. 

"  The  book  is  a  picture  of  New  York  life ;  the  story  is  well  painted ;  clearly, 
smoothly,  cleverly." — Boston  Ideas. 

"  New  York  fashionable  society  is  the  subject  in  general  and  the  career  of  Mrs. 
Clift-Crosby's  niece  the  theme  in  particular  of  the  present  issue.  Skimming 
lightly  over  the  surface  of  life  with  an  occasional  peep  into  its  depths,  it  depicts 
various  phases  of  '  swelldom,'  including  a  love  affair  with  a  French  count  and  all 
the  necessarv  adjuncts.    This  story  will  doubtless  interest  the  summer  reader." 

— Public  opinion. 

"  Mrs.  Hurlbut  has  given  us  an  interesting  picture  of  contemporary  fashionable 
New  York  Society  and  has  told  the  story  of^the  crossed  love  of  a  wayward  but 
very  attractive  and  very  real  girl.  The  conception  and  the  style  of  the  author  are 
genuinely  artistic."— Xewiew  0/ Reviews. 


*■     /" 


The  Celebrated  "Pseudonym"  Library. 

A  daintily  bound  and  printed  long  i6mo  pocket  edition  of 
the  best  new  fiction.  Cloth  bound,  gilt  top,  50  cents  per 
volume. 

Every  work  In  this  world-renowned  series  is  a  literary  Kem,  and  tlie  volumes 
themselves  are  specially  adapted  in  size,  appearance,  antTquality  for  boudoir  or 
drawing-room  use. 

Vol.  I.     MAKAR'S  DREAM. 

This  is  the  tale  of  the  dream  which  poor  Mak&r  dreamt  on  Christmas  Eve— the  very 
MakAr  who  is  mentioned  by  the  Russian  proverb  as  the  step-child  of  Kate.  The 
storv  is  in  turn  weird,  uncanny,  and  entrancing,  and  it  holds  the  reader  with  won- 
derful ijaiscination.    Once  reaa  it  will  never  be  forgotten. 


Vol.  II.      HERB    OF    LOVE. 
Greek  by  Eliz.  M.  Edmonds. 


Translated    from   the 


This  is  a  fascinating  story  of  Greek  peasant  life,  introducing  a  couple  of  gypsy 
characters  and  relieving  them  against  the  stolid  and  superstitious  Greek  peasantry 
with  strong  effect. 

Vol.   III.      HEAVY    LADEN.      Translated   from   the 
German  by  Helen  A.  Macdonell. 

"  Use  Frappen,  above  all  things,  paints  life  at  first  hand.  She  possesses  the  true 
artist's  eye;  and  the  Hamburg  that  could  draw  from  Heine  only  the  most  cynical 
and  scathing  sarcasm  has  revealed  to  her  a  wealth  of  poetic  material." 


Vol.    IV.      THE     SAGHALIEN 
OTHER  STORIES. 


CONVICTS     AND 


These  stories  illustrate  life  in  a  quarter  of  the  world  with  which  the  reading 
public  is  but  little  acquainted.  The  lover  of  fiction  will  find  in  these  pages  much 
to  delight  and  instruct.  The  scenes  and  characters  are  all  novel  but  described 
with  a  degree  of  art  which  invests  them  with  something  of  the  familiarity  of  that 
which  has  been  seen  h^ioxQj"— Philadelphia  Item. 

Vol.  V.    THE  SCHOOL  OF  ART.    By  Isabel  Snow. 

This  story  is  told  with  wonderful  verve,  and  yet,  amid  all  its  swing  and  rapidity 
of  movement  we  pause  at  times  to  brush  away  the  ready  tear.  It  is  intensely  true 
to  life,  and  the  atmosphere  is  nature's  own. 


Vol.  VI.  A  BUNDLE  OF  LIFE.  By  John  Oliver 
HOBBES  (Mrs.  Craigie),  author  of  "  Sinner's  Comedy," 
"  Some  Emotions  and  a  Moral,"  and  "  Study  in  Temp- 
tations." 

No  work  of  fiction  in  the  English  language  contains  more  brilliant  writing  in  the 
same  space. 

The  first  edition  was  exhausted  on  the  date  of  publication,  and  the  second  within 
SIX  days. 


A  BUNDLE  OF  U¥E— Continued. 

"To  my  mind  Mrs.  CraMe  (John  Oliver  Hobbcs)  is  the  cleverest  of  all  the  women 
who  have  spruiii;  iii'o  fame  within  the  last  two  or  three  years.  .  .  .  IfSiirah 
Grand  liad  Mrs.  Crai^i.-'s  condensation  'The  Heavenly  Twins'  would  be  a  much 
stronger  book.  .  .  .  iv».  s.  Craigie  is  a  cynic,  and  I  have  heard  that  her  cynicism 
comes  from  her  own  experiences  in  life,  which  have  not  been  of  the  happiest. 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Craigie  is  especially  clever  at  epigram  ;  her  books  are  epigrammatic 
from  the  first  to  the  last  page,  and  in  this  form  of  literature  she  is  much  more  strik- 
ing than  Uscar  Wilde.  With  Oscar  Wilde  it  seems  to  be  a  cultivateti  cleverness- 
with  Mrs.  Craigie  it  is  entirely  spontaneous,  and  is  her  way  of  looking  at  things! 
.  .  .  The  book  must  be  read,  and  it  will  be  read,  for  it  is  one  of  the  brightest 
that  has  been  published  in  many  a  lon^  day.  ...  I  think  that  I  have  proved  in 
the  foregoing  that  'A  Bundle  of  Life'  is  well  worth  reading,  and  that  Mrs.  Craigie, 
or  John  Oliver  Hobbes  if  one  prefers,  is  a  woman  of  sparkling  though  sarcastic 
wit."— Jkannktte  L.  GiLDUK  in  Ihc  JVew  York  lyortd. 

"  That  brilliant  woman  who  chooses  to  be  known  as  'John  Oliver  Hobbes '  is  one  of 
the  wittiest  of  modern  writers,  and  her  latest  tale  will  be  keenly  relished  for  its 
piquancy  and  its  clever  dramatizing  of  a  little  comedy  of  the  heart." 

— Boston  Beacon. 

"  The  book  contains  a  wealth  of  expressive  word-painting,  and  will  be  warmly 
welcomed  as  one  of  the  gems  of  the  Pseudonym  Library,  which  is  one  of  the  choic- 
est series  published.  The  Pseudonym  Librarv  represents  convenient  size,  excep- 
tional good  taste,  and  a  nameless  attraction  which  wins  one  the  moment  its  cover 
strikes  the  view.  The  type  is  a  delight  to  the  eye,  and  the  whole  book  holds  a 
charm  over  the  aesthetic  sense." — Boston  Ideas. 

"  How  often  in  our  own  experiences  have  we  found  it  difficult  to  decide  whether 
some  important  change  in  the  tide  of  our  affairs  is  brought  about  by  *  a  dispensation 
of  Providence  or  the  interference  of  Satan  ! '  And,  in  the  society  of  to-day,  are  there 
not  Lady  Lurewells  and  Mrs.  Portcullises  who  can  '  dress  up  a  sin  .so  religiously 
that  the  devil  h»  'iself  would  hardly  know  it  of  his  own  making  ? '  " 

— Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 

"  A  well-written  and  interesting  slory."— Christian  at  IVork. 

"John  Oliver  Hobbes'  masterpiece  is  clearly  '  A  Bundle  of  Life.'  " 

— Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 


Gossip  of  the  Caribbees; 

Or,  Sketches  of  Anglo-West  Indian  Life.  By 
William  R.  H.  Trowbridge,  Jr.  Illustrated.  i2mo, 
illuminated  cloth,  $1.25.    Paper,  50c. 

'  These  sketches  of  Anglo- West  Indian  life  have  an  unmistakable  flavor  of  Mr. 
Kipling  about  them.  .  .  .  They  are  interesting  bits  of  colony  life,  told  for  the 
most  part  in  graphic,  forceful  style,  with  occasional  touches  of  rather  daring 
r&iWsm."— Literary  IVorld. 

"  In  a  succession  of  slight  sketches  or  .short  stories  Mr.  Trowbridge  deals  with  the 
Windward  group  of  the  West  Indian  Islands  ih  its  social  aspects.  .  .  .  '  Mrs. 
Clarendon's  Dance '  is  an  excellent  piece  of  social  comedy,  and  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  capital  broad  farce  in  the  misfortunes  that  befall  the  ambitious  hostess 
whose  little  dance  proves  a  dismal  failure.  '  The  Old  Portrait  is  a  thrilling  ro- 
mance of  the  last  century,  which  nevertheless  seems  to  bear  internal  evidence  of 
keeping  pretty  close  to  actual  facts.  '  For  the  Sake  of  the  Cross  "  is  a  really  power- 
ful tale  of  noble  self-sacrifice."— 5a/«yrfay  Review,  London. 

"  The  book  opens  out  a  new  and  unexplored  region  to  the  majority  of  American 
readers,  and  is  intensely  interesting  both  in  style  and  subject  matter." 

— Evening  Post,  Chicago. 

"  The  sketches  are  very  interesting  and  give  one  a  clear  and  comprehensive  idea  of 
the  topography,  climate,  manners,  and  customs  of  Anglo- West  Indian  life  in  Barba- 
does  and  the  adjacent  colonies." — Town  Topics. 

"These  short  stories  contain  a  pleasing  admixture  of  light  satire  and  unaffected 
^i\xos."—The  Athenaum,  London. 


mSSSSSSSBSm 


Fragments  m  Baskets. 

By  Mrs.  W.  Boyd  Carpenter  (Wife  of  the  Bishop  of 
Ripon).  Beautifully  illustrated.  i2mo,  cloth,,  elegantly 
embossed,  $i.oo.  [7^^^  Published, 

These  fragments  comprise  a  series  of  twelve  exquisite  apologues,  attr.»ctive  alike 
to  youth  and  age.  A  daintily  illustrated  volume  admirably  adai)ted  for  presen- 
tation. 

Athletics    as    a    Means    of   Physical 
Training. 

By   Theo.    C.    Knauff.       Richly  illustrated.      i2mo, 
cloth,  $2.00. 

There  are  many  text-books  in  every  department  of  athletics  from  which  one  may 
learn  rules,  or  how  to  become  an  expert  by  making  a  business  of  a  pleasure.  This 
book,  however,  covers  the  whole  broad  field  of  athletics,  and  with  sufficient  detail 
not  only  to  determine  the  value  of  each  pursuit  as  a  mea^is  of  physical  culture,  but 
to  demonstrate  what  is  excess  and  to  ascertain  what  has  been  done,  or  what  may 
still  remain  to  be  accomplished,  by  the  average  business  man  who  caimot  devote  a 
lifetime  to  the  cultivation  of  athletics,  and  who  naturally  desires  every  hour  which 
he  is  able  to  devote  to  it  should  be  one  of  continuous  progress,  and  not  of  wasted, 
Ill-regulated  efforts,  which  are  ofl  times  disastrous  to  his  physical  well  being. 
The  peculiar  needs  and  opportunities  for  women  in  the  same  relation  receive 
attention. 

The  work  is  treated  very  exhaustively,  and  in  an  interesting  and  atti  active  form. 
It  has  not  been  written  from  a  medical  point  of  view,  but  with  the  t)liiect  of  fur- 
nishing a  popular  work.    The  object  has  been  to  create  a  standard  authority,  and 
we  think  that  the  public  will  agree  with  us  that  it  has  been  accomplished. 
*rhe  volume  has  a  wealth  of  original  illustrations,  including  many  life  studies  of 

{freat  value.    Some  of  these  will  appeal  very  strongly  to  those  who  have  been  neg- 
ecting  the  care  of  their  own  bodies,  with  the  result  of  impaired  health  and  vitality, 
as  well  as  lessened  capacity  to  enjoy  life. 


Americans  in  Europe. 

By  One  of  Them.    i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00.  Paper,  50c. 

This  remarkable  volume,  which  casts  so  strong  and  at  times  so  fierce  a  light  on 
American  life  abroad,  and  the  evils  to  which  it  is  constantly  exposed,  is,  beyond 
all  doubt,  destined  to  make  a  very  great  stir,  and  especiallv  among  travelers  and 
those  who  are  already  to  some  extent  familiar  with  the  conditions  of  existence  in 
European  capitals. 

The  author,  whose  identity  is  only  withheld  temporarily,  has  had  an  unequnled 
opportunity  of  acquainting  himself  with  his  subject,  and  the  result  is  a  trenchant 
and  powerful  work  without  a  single  dull  line  within  its  covers.  The  book  is  abso- 
lutely indispensable  to  all  contemplating  a  European  residence  for  themselves  or 
relatives. 

A  work  of  remarkable  power.  The  writer  is  absolutely  fearless  in  his  denuncia- 
tion of  American  practices  abroad  which  he  condemns. ' 

"  The  author  of  '  Americans  in  Europe  '  is  to  be  lauded  for  his  patriotism." 

—New  York  Times. 
'•  A  book  that  is  sure  to  have  a  sale  and  to  be  talked  about. "—iVkrzt/  York  Herald. 
"  The  author  has  pungent  chapters  on  the  dangers  to  which  America  young  men 
and  girls  are  exposed  in  Pans  when  they  go  there  to  study  art  ano  music,  arid 
mothers  are  warned  not  to  send  their  daughters  to  the  American  Sunday-school  at 
the  French  capital,  that  institution  being  denounced  as  a  hot-bed  of  flirtation." 

—Boston  Beacon. 


The  Larger  Life. 


By  Henry  A.  Adams,  M.A.  (for  some  time  rector  of  the 
Cathedral  Church  of  3t.  Paul,  Buffalo,  and  ihe  Church  of 
the  Redeemer,,  New  York).  With  a  very  fine  portrait  of 
the  author.     i2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top,  $i.oo. 

This  is  Father  Adams's  reply  to  the  storm  of  criticism  which  broke  over  him  upon 
his  becoming  a  CathoJjc.    Dedicated  "  To  my  Former  Parishioners." 
"The  personality  behind  these  eight  sermons  is  an  ijilense  one.    The  sermons 
Utemselv^'is  are  stirring  and  impressive  and  calculated  to  do  much  good.'' 

— Public  Opinion. 

"The  almost  electrical  energy  of  his  spoken  '    >  r      es  is  in  the  type  itself.    The 

eight  sermons  on   'The  Larger  Life'   are  a  <^r-x\.-^  of  condensation.      The  old 

Carlyleish  way  of  puliing  truths  appears  ever   vlu  w..  —Buffalo  News. 

"Clear,  f.houghtful,  ai:d  slimulating."~0'Wir>^i'i'. '"'  alist. 

"  Every  line  in  the  work  is  worthy  of  a  c  reful  perusal ;  the  sermons  are  models  of 

puipit  eioque?icc."— /iZ'(.v«'«jf  /tent,  Philadelphia. 

"  These  sermons  are  strange  discourses,  not  su-h  as  are  commonly  preached  anv- 

where;   earnest  and  good,  and  well  adapted  u,  make  an  mipression,  but  chielty 

valuable  for  their  heat  and  stimulation.    The  book  f.oatains  a  fine  portrait  of  tlie 

author." — Bosioti  Herald. 

"  The  force  and  sincerity  of  these  sermons  are  two  very  decisive  qualities." 

—Boston  Beacon. 

"These  sermons  trace  out  broad  theories  of  Christianity  and  follow  no  stated 
creed,  so  that  while  l.ie  author  has  been  impelled  to  change  the  form  of  his  own 
belief  the  spirit  of  the  essays  rises  above  sectarian  limits.  "-~i>'Oi-^i'«  Times. 


A  Chronicle  of  SmaU  Beer. 

By  John  Reid.    Iliustrated.    i2mo,  cloth,  $1.00.  Paper,  25c. 

A  mosl  delightlld  work  treating  of  Scotch  life  and  character,  not  t'.  b 
by  James  Matthew  Barrie  in  his  "  Little  Minister."  Thede^cnpUon  of 
in  the  Coup  "  is  finer  than  that  of  "  Tom  Brown's  School-days. 
"-  The  book  is  one  that  will  delight  the  heart  of  a  boy,  but  will  'oe  equally  successdil 
in  finding  older  re-acJers,  for  it  has  a  flavor  that  carries  one  back  iiistinctiveiy  to  his 
age  of  pranks  and  air  castles.  Of  the  twenty  sketches  in  the  book  not  one  is  with- 
out interest.  .  .  .  The  book  is  well  gotten  up,  illustrated  asid  handsomely 
hound: '—Lowell  Daily  Courier. 


he  surpassed 
The  Fight 


Oriole's  Daughter. 


h 


By  Jessie  Fothergill,  author  of  "The  First  Violin,"  ctc» 
375  pages,  i2mo,  $1.25. 

Like  "Cosmopolis"  this  most  interesting  book—the  last  written  before  her  death 
bv  thf  gifted  author  of  "  The  First.  Violii"  "---opens  >n  the  City  of  Rome,  and  as  in 
the  '-ase  of  BourgH's  chef  iV'Vuvre  it  is  Ihe  moral  miasma  of  that  tainted  city 
which  threatens  to  the  point  of  destruction  one  or  two  very  beautiful  lives. 
The  story  is  one  of  wild  oats  sown  in  youth  and  reaped  m  middle  life  in  hitter 
penitence  of  soul ;  of  an  innocent  and  beautiful  daughter  sacrificed  in  marriage  by 
an  unnatural  mother  to  a  wealthy  avid  repulsive  rou^ ;  of  a  human  sou!  seared  into 
indifference  by  the  horrid  contact,  and  ola  great  lemp1..ation~the  natuial  outcome 
of  the  situation— escaped  as  by  fire.     ,    ,    ^  ..     ,  ,  ,,  s    j  «•     *  « 

The  story  is  well  and  clearly  tcid ;  it  is  full  of  exquisite  passages,  is  delicately 
written,  and  absolutely  free  from  any  suspicion  of  grossaess^ 


mmim^smmmmiM 


CavalPijLifeiiiTenta'^FiBld 


-BY — 


MRS.  ORSEMUS  B.  BOYD. 


12mo,  Cloth,  $1,00,       Paper  BinfUng,  50  cents. 


MORE   FASCINATING  THAN  THE 

MOST  SENSATIONAL  FICTION. 


An  intensively  interesting  narrative  of  army  frontier  life 
^  in  Nevada,  California,  Arizona,  New  Mexico  and 
Texas,  ending  with  the  death  of  Captain  Boyd  from  hard- 
ships endured  while  in  pursuit  of  a  band  of  marauding 
Apaches.  It  is  also,  incidentally,  the  story  of  a  noble  and 
stainless  life,  darkened   at   the  outset  by  the  shameful 

CRIME  OF    A    BROTHER   CADET    AT    WEST     POINT. 


From  Current  Literature  of  June,  1894, 

Mrs.  O.  B.  Boyd,  the  author  of  Cavalry  Life  in  Tent  and  Field  has 
had  an  experience  of  "roughing  it"  on  the  plains  as  the  wife  of  a  cavalr} 
officer,  such  as  has  probably  not  fallen  to  the  lot  of  any  other  tenderly 
nurtured  woman.  No  one  to  look  at  Mrs.  Boyd  would  imagine  she  had 
endured  the  hardships  and  dangers  of  frontier  life  for  a  period  of  fifteen 
years,  and  that  a  score  and  more  of  years  ago  she  was  a  wanderer  in  the 
wilds  of  Arizona,  in  hourly  terror  of  Indians,  and  so  destitute  of  every 
element  of  comfort  tluit  in  moving  with  her  husband  to  far  outlying 
military  stations  she  was  compelled,  for  security  and  comfort,  to  have 
her  infant  child  carried  upwards  of  a  thousand  miles  in  a  champagne 
basket.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  mentally  and  physically  Mrs.  Boyd  has 
endured  hardships  which  have  not  been  surpassed  in  the  experience 
of  any  American  officer's  wife.  *  *  *  The  book  is  a  wonderful 
record  of  frontier  life  as  seen  through  the  eyes  of  a  Cavalry  officer's  wife. 
No  more  descriptive  work  has  appeared  in  recent  years,  and  apart  from 
this  the  book  has  a  value  far  beyond  the  mere  skill  of  the  narrative,  as 
,those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  melancholy  history  of  the  late 
^ptain  Boyd  wiil  readily  understand. 


SANDOW'S 

Method  of  Physical  Culture, 

FOR  MEN,  WOMEN  AND  CHILDREN. 


EDITED    BY 


Capt.  G.  MERCER  ADAM. 


A  large  Octavo,  Handsomely  bound  in  cloth  and  embell- 
ished with  SO  superb  half-tone  illustrations. 

Prick  S2.00. 


Every  physician  should  study  this  book,  every  athlete 
should  master  its  instructions,  and  every  young  person, 
male  or  female,  can  find  in  its  pages  valuable  hints  for  the 
proper  regulation  of  their  daily  routine. — The  Spirit  cj 
the  Times. 

A  handsome  book,  strikingly  and  beautifully  illustra- 
ted.— New  York  Sun. 

A  remarkably  handsome  volume  with  a  profusion  of 
Illustrations. — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

A  splendid  volume,  superbly  illustrated.  Its  illustra- 
tions are  worth  many  times  its  cost. — Baltimore  American. 

The  reproduction  of  photographs  of  Mr.  Sandow 
present  outlines  and  dimensions  that  attain  the  classic. — 
Philadelphia  Enquirer. 

We  welcome  just  such  a  book  as  this,  because  it  will 
gtir  the  ?imbitions  pf  tens  of  thousands, — N.  Y,  Herald, 


The  Green  Bay  Tree, 


BY 


W.  H.  Wilkins  and  Herbert  Vivian, 

389  pages,  12mo,  cloth  $1,00.   Pajwr  binding  (Kenil' 

worth  Series)  50  cents, 

TJNDOUBTEDLY  the  most  trenchant  and  brilliant,  as 
well  as  the  most  cynical  work  of  fiction  published  during 
the  present  year.     The  style  is  as  crisp  and  citptivating  as  that 
<y  ^^/ohn  Oliver  Hobbes""  in  A  bundle  of  Life, 

The  chief  representative  of  the  ungodly, — who  flourish 
like  the  Green  Bay  Tree  of  Scripture — is  a  rather  pleasing 
villain  in  the  form  of  a  young  man  gifted  with  a  polished  ex- 
terior  and  address,  but  utterly  devoid  of  conscience.  This 
young  man  has  the  rare  advantage  of  thoroughly  knowing  him- 
self from  the  outset,  and  from  the  time  he  enters  Harrow 
School  until  he  becomes  a  Member  of  Parliament,  unhandi 
capped  throughout  by  any  suggestion  of  principle,  he  exhibits  a 
market  aptitude  for  getting  on  by  very  worldly  methods,  at  the 
expense  of  everybody  and  everything  which  can  in  any  way 
contribute  to  his  success,  be  the  cost  what  it  may  to  them. 

The  moral  of  the  book  goes  to  show  that  so  far  as  suc- 
cess in  this  world  is  concerned,  Godliness  will  not  ensure  it  in 
a  contest  with  those  unweighted  by  scruple  of  any  kind,  unless, 
indeed^  a  good  spice  of  worldly  wisdom  is  added. 


"  The  Publishers  are  anticipating  a  success,  I  have  read 
the  advance  sheets  of  the  book,  and  I  can  see  why  they  feel  a$ 
they  do  about  it:'    JEANETTE  L.  GUDER  inth^N^V 


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i|  lijl^^iee  in  tlie  Ir^tit:  ^k  of  living  #i^^^  d^^ 

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